A Path Darkly Taken
by Angel of Mystery-145
Summary: 19th century - A voice in the night changed his dark path. Necessity forced her down a dark road she never would have traveled. In a manor shadowed with secrets, music is stirred to life and hearts can mend…or can they? A gothic retelling of Jane Eyre with PotO characters and feel – E/C - will eventually be rated M
1. Chapter 1

_**One song saved his life.**_

 _ **One song crushed her spirit.**_

 _ **In a manor of secrets, betrayal and lies, neither could have guessed what the music would reveal...**_

 **.**

 **A/N: I love blending beloved classics (in public domain) that have strong similarities to PotO while keeping all the facets of PotO to make it the same in presentation (basics), but unique and all my own too – a blend of both tales with a twist. Not truly a crossover, so I keep it in the PotO section. As I did with Come to Me (PotO blended w/ Wuthering Heights), the same applies to this story, will eventually be rated M for all the usual reasons. (sex, adult situations) Chapter warnings will be given. Until that time, I'm keeping it at a T...At times it will strongly favor Jane Eyre, other times will entirely be PotO, especially later into the story (both ALW and Kay's) - but don't look for exact matches to either tale, because I'll be doing my own thing too. ;-) The characters of PotO are not my own (oh, how I wish - haha), nor of Jane Eyre, though original characters are my creation...**

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I

(1856)

.

"There is no Angel of Music you stupid child!"

The harsh words were aimed at the small girl crouched in the corner on the dusty hardwood floor. With her knees drawn up beneath her chin, she clutched her legs and buried her face into her worn skirts.

She would not let her mean cousins see her tears!

"But there is a terrible beast that roams these lands," nine-year-old Georgiana continued where her eleven-year-old brother left off, "a _monster_ with a demon's face. He searches out the wicked children, seeping through the manor walls like a ghost – and will surely come this night to bite off your head!"

"And eat your brains out," Geoff added snidely. "He comes every harvest moon, to claim his next victim…"

"I'm not wicked," she whimpered into her skirts, "I'm not!" Christine trembled at the idea of such a frightful creature.

"You _are_ wicked – you broke my music box!"

"I didn't mean to!" She lifted her head to make her feeble defense. "It was on the edge of the table. I walked by, and it fell -"

"You **_lie_** , you wretched girl! You did it on purpose!" Georgiana rushed forward and viciously pulled a handful of thick ringlets, then slammed her palms against Christine's shoulders so she fell back against the wall. Warily, she again pushed herself upright.

"But the monster of Rouen will come and find you. He lives in the darkness and feeds off your fear," Georgiana hissed. "You will make a tasty morsel for his midnight supper."

Christine kept silent, again resting her forehead on her knees – they wouldn't believe her, they never did, though she told the truth as Papa always said to. Yet she would not beg them to stop speaking of such terrors or to let her out. Begging did no good. It only made their torments worse.

 _"_ You should **_never_** have come here, Christine Daaé!"

A door slammed and Christine heard the bolt shoot through the lock. Startled she lifted her head, but saw nothing. The room was pitch-black.

NO!

They had locked her in this horrid attic room, smelling of mildew and death, and next to frightful ghosts and storybook monsters she feared the darkness even more. She had never seen a ghost or monster, but she had experienced the darkness more than once since she'd come to this awful place, and before that too...

It was in the darkness her Papa died. It was in the darkness they took her away from him. And it was in the darkness they punished her when they said she'd been bad.

Terrified, she scrambled to her knees and then to her feet, blindly feeling along the walls for the window she had glimpsed earlier.

If it had been up to her, she would never have come to this awful, horrid place. But little girls were never given a choice, especially poor little girls, and when Papa died from the fever shortly after she turned six, she had been forced to come to Greenwich Hall, the home of her widowed aunt and two cousins, who were every bit as evil as their mother. She had lived here half a year, and the tortures never ceased.

"Papa, Papa," she whimpered, the tears now falling past her face and wetting her neck as she slapped her palms along the planks. She moved slowly, fearfully, sure at any moment to feel the bite of sharp teeth from the Ghost Monster of the Harvest Moon.

"Oh, why did you leave me, Papa…?" she wailed softly.

At last her hands connected with the rougher wood of what must be the shutters. Quickly her small fingers found the latch, and she threw them wide. The sash of the dirty window stuck, but desperately she pushed at it until it gave, and sobbed in relief to see the clear nighttime sky painted with so many white stars and a huge orange moon that glowed and gave light. A cold breeze kissed her heated face and attempted to dry her tears. Her grateful gaze went up to the wide stretch of sky and fastened on a star that shone more brightly than all the rest.

"You once spoke of an Angel," she whispered, "you said one day the Angel of Music would come to me and be with me if I was very good. But it's so hard, Papa. I try to be good, but they say I'm bad. I don't like it here. I don't like them. I _hate_ them and wish I could leave and be with you. I so want to be with you again, Papa…"

 _Sing, my Little Lotte. When you are troubled and frightened and your heart is heavy, then sing. Fear is found in whispers and shadows. When you sing, you no longer hear them or feel them._

Christine smiled faintly at the memory of her Papa comforting her during a bad storm. She had sung, he had played his violin, and the frightful darkness of the storm and the shadows it cast had passed into calm forgetfulness.

Many times since she'd come to Greenwich Hall, she sang when she was alone or scared, when they could not hear. Her aunt loathed music, but she was asleep on the other side of the manor, and Christine was locked away for the night, trapped, in this cold, dark attic room with its cobwebs and spiders and darkness…always the darkness…

The unseen monster that fed on fear threatened to swallow her whole.

She shivered and turned her beseeching gaze up to the stars, lifting her voice in song.

 **xXx**

Under the dusky light of a harvest moon, along the narrow path of a cliff by the sea, a lone figure moved with quiet grace, his soul and body weary and weighted with his choice. Viciously he rubbed his sleeve along wet cheeks, determined not to cry but unable to stop the tears.

Unwanted. Unloved. No more than a monster…

Hardly a boy, barely a man, he had come home, hoping to find peace and a place to heal. Hoping his mother might at last welcome him with open arms. Hoping she might have missed him after all the years he'd been gone.

He should have known better. He had long learned to live without such an unreachable presence as hope, the lesson taught him as a small child. Hope was the disguise of a cruel marauder stealing its way into his fortress of cold logic, once more desiring to rob him of his resolve by taunting him into the belief that one day things could change.

 _They would never change!_

She had been just as cold and cruel and as beautiful as ever. She had not ordered him to leave – where would be the fun in that? Her amusement was in daily forcing him see what a wretched excuse for humanity she had been cursed with – not even human. She had called him a little monster ever since he could crawl, and on his sixth birthday, when he begged not to wear the mask _only that one day_ , and then asked the unpardonable – for a kiss to keep and a kiss to save – she made him look in her full-length mirror to see the monster - dressed in his clothes! - and he learned the wretched truth. He had fled two years later, been captured by gypsies, and years after that ran from them as well, stowing away on a ship in the night. For a time he found solace in another country, even acceptance in learning a trade, but then…

 _Luciana._

A fresh swell of tears burned his eyes at the dark whisper of memory, and he looked out over the cliff and the sea churning beneath the nighttime sky.

God, he _was_ a monster! The ghost stories the cruel village children spread about him, ever since in his boyish ignorance years past he foolishly attempted to befriend them, might as well be true…

He did not deserve to exist, was told so repeatedly, so why should he bother? No one wanted him. Many more feared or ridiculed him for something he couldn't even help or change. His very presence disgusted the masses and now… now he had killed an innocent, proving what a monster he truly was.

 _Oh God, Luciana…_

He clutched his cloth mask in one hand, fisting it hard as he moved closer to the edge and the dark promise of oblivion. One step, and then another. A smattering of small rocks broke away from beneath the toe of his shoe, plummeting far to the crashing waves and the boulders below. Only one step more, and then it would all be over …

From nowhere and everywhere the sweetest of voices suddenly drifted to him, carried on the wind. A voice – clear as the ring of crystal – it lingered over the rush of the distant surf and lifted in song. His eyes widened at the beauty of the voice, so pure, so innocent…

The voice of an angel.

He stepped back from the cliff, his dark intent abruptly forgotten, and returned to the pathway, looking all around the empty land shrouded in nighttime's shadows for the bearer of the song.

It was impossible to tell where the beautiful voice came from, how distant or how near. The words were vague, unrecognizable, but his sharp hearing could just make out the syllables. He listened, her angel's voice settling gently into his soul and giving him a strange sensation of ease and warmth in the middle of his chest, where there had been only turmoil. His senses were almost buoyant but…calmed…the rhythm of his heart slowing its frantic beats.

Was this comfort that he felt?

He desperately wished to seek out the voice, though he feared that once he did, his monstrous presence would frighten her and she would run from him. As all the girls ran from him. Some of them whimpering or screaming. The boys, his age and younger, usually threw handfuls of pebbles or rotten food at him, to drive him away like the wild beast they called him. Only at Giovanni's villa had he felt a measure of safety …

But he could never go back there.

Desperately he searched, though he had no idea where to look, and continued to walk, further away from the sea and what was once home and the woman who did not want him...drawn to the beautiful music that warmed his heart in the chill air.

The song she sang, the same one over and over again, was a drink of refreshment to his parched soul. The further he walked, the words came clearer, stronger –

She sang, in earnest and mournful plea … to an angel?

And then the music abruptly ceased. He wanted to cry for the desolation of losing that sweetest of voices. He waited, motionless, hoping to hear her strange song once more.

It was then, with the memory of her pure, celestial voice still echoing in his mind, that he made a decision. He would live on – he would _not_ give into defeat. He would go to the land of which Giovanni had spoken.

He would go to Persia.

 **xXx**

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 **A/N: More to come soon…hope you liked this little intro! :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I'm excited to see such a great reception to this story and am thankful for the many wonderful reviews! :) Thanks also for the bday wishes -** **(** **it was great - got a new computer hutch desk! A BIG one lol) ... cotesgoat – I don't believe I've heard of that movie – I'll have to look it up and see…(Also, regarding Man in the Iron Mask – from what you and another reader asked in other story reviews – it's been so long since I've seen that movie, I'll have to watch it again and see if I get inspired)…right now, my plate is full with the E/C phanphics I'm writing – and a couple still waiting in the wings – but that doesn't stop my muse from conjuring up more. Just the other day I got _yet another_ idea for a classic blend w/ PotO…haha (But don't worry, I'll wait on that one. ;-)) … And now …. **

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**II**

.

Christine stood on a low stool in the frightfully cold schoolroom and faced the class as she'd been sternly instructed to do.

They had taken away her waist-length curls, so recently shorn, her thick hair now hitting just below her ears and no longer providing a natural shawl of warmth. They had taken away her pretty gold locket that Papa gave her, his last gift to her a few days before he died, the headmistress citing the evil of worldly treasures and the sin of possessing them. And now they tried to take away her beautiful song, calling her voice a tool of evil to practice the devil's works.

She frowned in resentment. Her song had been about an Angel of Music, not a demon from hell! But it failed to matter. Music was forbidden in this hollow prison of Lindenwood Institution, a stark, horrid place for orphaned girls, like Christine.

Tears burned her eyes but she would not cry. She stared hard at the lacy pattern of frost flowers icing the far window, recalling the long, hard months, all the way back to the morning that led her to this dreary excuse for a school …

On the dawn following her cousins' cruelty of locking her in the attic as a sacrifice to the Harvest Monster, hands like claws cruelly pinched around her arms and tore Christine from exhausted slumber, where she had collapsed on the floor beneath the open window. The night wind had done its damage, tossing about items, mostly light clothing and papers, and scattering them with its blustery breath.

Christine blinked hard and stumbled to a stand, holding to the wall and staring anxiously up at her stern Aunt Hildegard.

Tall and thin, her black dress and dark bun making her even more severe, the woman had stared at Christine with barely concealed contempt.

"What are you doing in this room?" her aunt scolded. "Just look at this mess! And look at you – filthy to the skin, with hair as ratted as a horse's tail. Go and tidy yourself, put on your blue dress and coat, and come downstairs to the parlor at once."

"But - it wasn't my fault!"

"I did not ask for your impertinence!" Her aunt raised a hand as if to strike, but Christine quickly backed up.

"You **_never_** listen to me..." Tears filled her eyes. "You're mean and hateful and I wish I'd never come to this awful old house!"

" _You_ _**horrid** child_ -" Her aunt pointed to the door. _**"Go at once!"**_

Christine scampered out the attic and to the chamber she'd been given to sleep in. Small and spare, the gable room contained an arched window above a small bench – the only furnishings save for the iron bedstead, the cupboard, and a small table with a pitcher and basin to wash. A horse whinnied outside, the curious sound of visitors urging Christine to wipe away her tears and kneel on the bench's padded seat to look through the beveled diamond panes. A black covered carriage stood outside on the path.

If she did not appear soon, a servant would be sent to collect her, and that could go very bad for Christine; if her aunt was truly angry, she might tell cook to take her breakfast away.

Quickly, Christine opened the nearly empty cupboard and eyed her two dresses: one a dark brown wool she wore every day, ever since her travels with Papa; the other a drab blue muslin she was made to wear to attend church services since she'd come to her aunt's. She scrubbed her face and hands with water from the basin, also her teeth with the finger, and carefully combed out her thick curls, patting them with water to better smooth them. Cleanliness accomplished, she slipped the drab blue over her chemise, followed by her twice-patched coat, and hurried downstairs.

A strange man stood in the parlor near where her Aunt Hildegard was seated in a plush hardback chair. Tall and reed thin like her, he wore spectacles on his hawkish nose that turned up and looked down at Christine, as if she were a drooling puppy frolicking too close to his glossy shoes.

The thought made her giggle which earned a stern look of reprimand from her aunt and a frigid stare from the dour stick-like man. Christine bit her lips to quiet them but did not wilt under her elders' intense scrutiny.

"It is as I told you, Mr. Markham, she is incorrigible, a hoyden, as wild and unprincipled as the man my sister married. After dear Lizbet's death, he actually took their daughter from town to town, playing his violin in the streets and putting the child on public exhibition for the crowds. Can you imagine?"

Mr. Markham clucked his tongue in shared disapproval. Christine narrowed her eyes, uncertain what she said about her and her dear Papa with all her fancy words, but sure it wasn't nice.

"Naturally, I have done what I could for the girl by taking her into my home, exhausting my resources and my time to teach her what is proper, but I fear all my good intentions are useless. She needs a more structured environment, and that is when I thought of you and your wonderful institution. Certainly it would be kinder than sending her to the poorhouse. That I could never do to Lizbet's only child."

She took a sip of tea from her porcelain cup then set it back on the saucer she held in her hand.

Christine bit the tip of her tongue nearly in half not to call her aunt a liar. The woman had constantly scolded and called her names. She made it clear to Christine from her first day at Greenwich Hall that she was no more than a poor relation thrust upon her, often excluding her from family outings, not that Christine minded that. She preferred to hide herself away in the library alcove and look at the interesting pictures in the many books there.

"You were right to send for me, Madame Rutland. I will happily take the child to Lindenwood, and I also want to extend my profuse gratitude for your charitable donation."

She nodded regally and he looked at his new charge, his effusiveness melting into scorn.

"What is your name, girl?"

"Christine Daaé."

"Christine Daaé, **_sir_**."

She only looked at him, and he narrowed his eyes. "Well then, come along, Daaé. It is time you learned your proper place in this world."

Greenwich Hall had been heaven and her aunt one step closer to an angel, (though never that), compared to the dank Lindenwood Institution and the devils who ran the place.

In the three months since she'd come here, Christine had known starvation, humiliation, and deprivation - those fancy words she had learned very quickly. Madame Dartmeir had become her personal tormentor from the morning Christine walked into her classroom. Christine could never please the plain and severe teacher, and soon lost any desire to try. She hated it here, hated a place so harsh and drab and devoid of all the beauty and music she was raised to love.

When she arrived late to a lesson in sewing, all because she tried and failed to comb out her unruly curls into the more sedate plait required of all the girls (her fingers were nearly frozen, just as the water in the basin had been that morning), Madame had gone into a rant and attributed her excuse to sinful vanity. Taking a pair of shears, she had cut away Christine's long chestnut ringlets, while her orphaned peers had watched in sympathetic horror.

Her Papa once told her they were the one trait Christine had to remind him of her mama.

"She's just pea green with envy because her hair's so thin and looks like dirty dishwater," Christine's dearest friend said to her that night as they hugged one another close for warmth. Each small bed in Lindenwood held two girls, and away from stern eyes, she and her bed mate, Meggie, often whispered to one another – empathizing over their troubled days. But that night, they shared dreams of what they hoped their futures might hold.

"It will grow back, Christine."

Christine nodded miserably. The cold was even more pronounced against her neck and arms without her hair as a covering. "I hate it here, Meggie. One day when I'm all grown, I will leave this place, I swear it."

"What will you do?"

"I will sing… in the theater. I should like that. To sing for an audience who _likes_ my voice." She giggled at such a happy thought.

"You don't wish to marry when you're of age?"

Christine thought hard about that. "Only if I can find a kind man like my Papa. And he must love music. And be a grand musician, like Papa was. And sing…"

"I should like to dance," her friend said thoughtfully after a moment's reflective silence. "My papa once told me I had an aunt that danced ballet. Perhaps, when we're older, we can both take the stage!"

"Wouldn't that be fun?" Christine enthused. "To sing and dance together!"

"Oh, I should dearly love it so…" Meggie said wistfully.

"You will float across the stage with grace, like a swan, and my voice will soar splendidly because of my Angel. It will reach every corner of the vast theater, and the audience will give us standing ovations."

"Your Angel?"

"Mm-hm."

There was a short silence.

"What's an ovation?"

"Papa said it's when the audience shows their greatest appreciation for your performance. They stand and clap their hands – and give flowers to the leads."

"Do you wish to be a lead, Christine?"

"Oh, yes – I would hope so! I do love flowers…roses are best. They smell so sweet!"

In a room so cold they could see their breaths, and wearing thin nightshifts while huddling in threadbare blankets, such dreams seemed an unreachable fantasy. But as the wind howled mournfully outside the walls, they smiled and they giggled, planning their imagined futures at the theater together.

Less than a week later, a stranger arrived at the decrepit school for charity orphans and took Meggie away. When Christine learned of it, she ran from the schoolroom and to the window in alarm, seeing the departing carriage in the distance, then raced outdoors into the blowing snow – the tears frozen on her face as she screamed for her dear Meggie to come back…

An act for which she was severely reprimanded for her insolence of being disruptive. The nape of her neck stung all day from the dozen harsh blows delivered to it with a tied bundle of twigs, just as her ears rang with the incessant words of what a wicked girl she was and how she must repent of her rebellious ways and change her heart to do better.

She did strive to be a good girl and please God, but Papa's version of Him had been much kinder...

And the elusive Angel of Music, one of His servants, surely was a most kind and glorious angel, to grant his gifts to those who proved worthy…

Papa had promised, after all.

 **xXx**

"Christine, will I die?"

Uncertain with how to respond, Christine brushed Nellie's pale gold hair out of her eyes, trying to quench her tears. In Christine's six years at the Institution, Nellie was the sweetest child there and the youngest of the remaining sixty-three orphans at Lindenwood, barely five years old.

 _Why_ little Nellie?

She did not deserve this horrible fate!

That winter leading into spring, Typhus had swept through the school and claimed eight of the weakest victims, the pungent and bitter odors of camphor and burnt vinegar prevalent in the darkened corridors. Shy little Nellie had also succumbed to the vicious fever. Not all who'd been struck ill died, and not all were struck ill, Christine in that number. The sickness, once it claimed its victim, laid waste over a period of weeks, a new wooden coffin a common sight, its small corpse laid to rest with a spray of wildflowers placed against little white hands.

Already a frail child, Nellie did not look as if she would last the night, and Christine was reminded of sitting by her father's deathbed. His fever did not produce the angry red rash that Nellie had, but he had the same listless look in his eyes, the same hot and clammy pale skin.

Like then, Christine felt helpless with what to do.

"Shall I sing to you, Nellie? Would you like that?"

Nellie's dimmed blue eyes grew round at the idea of the forbidden treat and she nodded. Small wonder that the child was surprised; Christine had never divulged her secret to anyone. She had learned long ago that her unique musical voice was forbidden, presumed to lead into vanity, the circumstances harsh when she disobeyed. Still, she was her father's child, and it seemed disrespectful to Papa's memory to so completely denounce her voice that he loved so well. Only when she knew she was alone with no one nearby to listen did she allow herself to quietly sing all the songs Papa once taught her and others she had heard in her short life.

She still half-hoped for the Angel to come that her father promised her as he lay dying, but each year that passed at Lindenwood stole a little more of that dream away. Now that she was nearly fourteen, she sadly had begun to see his parting words as no more than a sweet myth to calm a tearful child.

"Close your eyes," Christine quietly instructed. Once Nellie did, Christine lifted her voice, but softly, singing a song she remembered from days past, when she was a small child like Nellie, in what seemed another lifetime:

" _My feet they are sore, and my limbs they are weary;  
Long is the way, and the mountains are wild;  
Soon will the twilight close moonless and dreary  
Over the path of the poor orphan child._

 _Why did they send me so far and so lonely,  
Up where the moors spread and grey rocks are piled?  
Men are hard-hearted, and kind angels only  
Watch o'er the steps of a poor orphan child._

 _Yet distant and soft the night breeze is blowing,  
Clouds there are none, and clear stars beam mild,  
God, in His mercy, protection is showing,  
Comfort and hope to the poor orphan child_ –"

A step at the door of the sick room brought Christine's head around with a snap, cutting off her song. She let out a great sigh of relief to see Mademoiselle Talbot approach, walking past the cots of slumbering children.

"Christine," she warned softly, putting a hand to her shoulder. "You know the rules. You shouldn't even be here..."

Christine believed that Mademoiselle Talbot was God's gift and sole act of mercy bestowed to the poor miserable orphans of Lindenwood Institution. Where the other teachers were heartless or indifferent, Mademoiselle Talbot reserved a softly-spoken word or tender touch for those in need of one. She was the gentle opposite of her peers, the one good seed among the bad. Her delightful stories told to her pupils encouraged Christine to delve into the literary world of books. And she _never_ once disciplined any child with the extreme measure the other teachers doled out. Yet Mademoiselle Talbot's moral code of conduct did not allow her to stand up to her superiors or break any one of their infinite number of rules, even if by her expression she felt them unfounded. Meekly she did all that was expected, but in secret, it was not unusual for one of the girls to find a sweet biscuit upon her pillow after suffering a prolonged punishment unjustly deserved and delegated by one of the other instructors. With brown bread and coffee the staple of the orphans' diet, buttered bread on Sundays, such a treat was much appreciated. Christine admired Mademoiselle Talbot immensely and hoped to be just like her when she grew into a woman.

"I'm sorry," she said, not wishing for her favored teacher to think ill of her. "I was visiting the necessary and heard Nellie cry. The candle had blown out. I only thought to calm her."

Mademoiselle Talbot distantly nodded, looking toward the small cot. Christine took her hand, gaining her attention, and drew the instructor a short distance away.

"Is she going to be alright?" she whispered, her tone pleading for affirmation.

Deep sorrow touched her teacher's gray eyes. "Only the Lord in His wisdom knows the answer to that, my dear. Now, you must return to your room and to bed."

Christine nodded obediently and walked to the doorway, glancing one last time toward Nellie, who finally lay sleeping. Her heart wrenched a little in relief and gratitude to see Mademoiselle Talbot sink to a nearby chair, so as to keep watch over the sick child.

In the morning, once Christine awakened, she discovered that the ruthless Typhus had claimed its ninth victim.

Two days later, she learned that dear Mademoiselle Talbot had been discharged from Lindenwood.

Christine never learned why.

 **xXx**

"Mademoiselle Daaé, _must_ you go?"

Christine ceased in packing her valise with her few worldly possessions and looked upon the sweet round face of her most promising student, Emilie. This dear child and others like her were the only sharp pull on her heartstrings to remain…

But she had long been resolved to bid a cheery farewell to this cheerless institution at the earliest opportunity. While outward improvements _were_ made once the angry populace investigated and discovered the meager living conditions at Lindenwood after the Typhus horror of four years ago – Christine had never felt welcome in this soulless place.

For more than a year, since she turned seventeen, she had stayed on as a teacher, gaining the experience needed to secure a position of her own.

That day had finally arrived.

Sweeping back the dark strands of hair from Emilie's soulful brown eyes, Christine smiled through her own tears.

"You must promise me that you'll be a good girl and mind your manners. Do your lessons when told, say your prayers - and do be kind to Anne."

Christine fondly recalled those first days when she was new to this frightening place, like the mousy little Anne, and how Meggie with her bright smile and cheerful attitude had reached out to Christine and made her feel as if she wasn't so alone. Even after so many years, she still missed her first true friend. Nightly she prayed that all was well with dear Meggie and that she had found the happiness so richly deserved.

"Oui, mademoiselle," Emilie answered sadly. "I will be good. And to Anne, as well."

Christine's departure from Lindenwood went much as expected. The senior staff barely registered her leaving, still miffed that she had secretly put out an advertisement in the regional newspaper, offering her services. The two newest teachers, on the same level as Christine as far as experience, offered kind regards; she had never allowed herself to get close enough to either of them to form strong ties. It was the children that made her want to cry and gather them up to her bosom, wishing she could take each and every one of them with her…

But she could no longer stay. She felt as if she was suffocating in this wretched place, and yearned to see more of the world and what it had to offer.

As the carriage bore her away to new lodgings, Christine fingered the locket around her neck. She recalled how she had brashly approached the headmistress in her office and respectfully (well, she had tried) requested it back, citing that vanity did not spur her to reclaim it, only sentiment - the locket all she had left of her parents, her mother its original owner. She'd been more than a little surprised when without a word, the elderly headmistress retrieved a small box from a high shelf and returned the cherished trinket.

"Be wary, mademoiselle," the woman bid in grave farewell, "that pride does not catch you in its snare."

Papa had sometimes cautioned her not to be prideful, but after her long, trying years at Lindenwood, Christine felt the parting insinuation was entirely unjustified.

She frowned, looking out the grimy window at the windswept landscape and overcast skies and passed the next hours recalling her days at Lindenwood – bringing to mind mostly those rare snippets of the delightful and noteworthy, usually involving Meggie or Mademoiselle Talbot, that lay buried within endless years of despair. She thought of all she endured and wished she could have changed and all of what she regretted – and then she pushed the entirety of it from her mind, resolved never to dwell on that chapter of her life again.

By the time the carriage rolled to a stop, Christine felt prepared to meet the new challenges that awaited her at _Manoir de Thornfield_...

The driver, however, was less than accommodating in taking her there.

He stared down at her from his box seat perched above.

"Pardon, mademoiselle, but I can go no further. The road below is badly rutted. With no one to help me, I cannot risk one of the wheels getting stuck in the mud."

"Oh but - how then shall I get there?"

Exasperated with his claims, Christine stood on the dry dirt path and looked around at the forest of tall trees that closed them in from all sides. His agitated manner led her to believe he had a hidden reason for his suspect refusal to drive her directly to the manor house.

"Follow that road. It will take you where you need to go. Adieu."

With a hasty lift of his cap in a pretense of politeness, the carriage took off, leaving her in a cloud of dust.

Christine blinked in faint disbelief and growing dismay, then turned to look at the long road before her. With a determined clench of her teeth and stubborn roll of her shoulders, she hefted her valise and set off down the path that twisted like a ribbon below.

The sun soon began to dim, sinking lower beyond the trees and lending a chill bite to the air. Sooner than she expected, twilight made its appearance, casting the land in deep purple shadow, the trees as black silhouettes. If she weren't so apprehensive, she might appreciate the mysterious artistry, a scene worthy to put to canvas with how the remaining sunlight dappled golden-silver along the wild grass, but at this rate, she would never arrive to her destination before nightfall!

She shivered at the prospect and steadfastly continued alongside the road that contained not a hint of civilization. She wondered what wild, dangerous animals lurked in these woods, then swiftly ousted that grisly and frightening thought.

 _A path darkly taken leads to a destiny unforeseen. Whether it be of nightmares feared or dreams coveted depends on the brightness of the lantern you carry with you._

The old adage from dear Mademoiselle Talbot helped to bolster Christine's courage and resolve – though she wryly thought at the moment it would be much more favorable to have an actual lamp in hand.

Her stomach growled, reminding her that she'd not eaten since breakfast. She slipped her hand into the pocket of her cloak for the peach one of her pupils presented her with in farewell, took a bite from its sweet juicy flesh – then promptly lost her hold on the slick fruit.

"Oh no!" she cried with a little moan of disgust and darted into the middle of the road where the peach had rolled behind her, to collect her small repast.

The wild thundering of hooves – coming shockingly close – led Christine to spin around sharply as a dark figure seated on a ghostly white horse appeared atop the shallow rise, his cloak billowing madly about him.

She anxiously swallowed the masticated peach and took a few quick steps back as if Hades himself had emerged from his Underworld to seize her – then lost all sense of balance and fell to the ground in a panic.

He pulled back harshly on the reins causing the ghost stallion to rear up on its hind legs, its forelegs pawing the air as it gave a high-pitched whinny, its eyes rolled back and wild –

And a frightful match for the madman's eyes that burned down at her from behind the sockets of a black mask.

 **xXx**

* * *

 **A/N: *claps hands together – muahaha-** ** _I mean -_** **Oh, dear…**

 **Chrissy, Chrissy- what are you doing diving after that dirty peach?! Yuk. You should have left it be…of course then their first encounter wouldn't have been as much fun… ;-) (Those who know Jane Eyre- no, I just couldn't do that to Erik, have him be the one to clumsily fall. I mean, really, the man oozes feline grace and mastery - I just couldn't picture him being thrown from his horse…) Also, do not look for an exact copy of Jane Eyre in Christine, though there will be some similarities, of course. (Same with Erik with regard to Rochester).  
**

 ****Song that Christine sang to Nellie – Poor Orphan Child – is a poem by Charlotte Bronte from the novel Jane Eyre –**

 **I know I covered a lot of ground, (as in years) in this one chapter. I tried to make the transitions of time with each section as clear as possible- but like Christine, I didn't want to spend any more time than I deemed necessary at** **Lindenwood Institution. ;-)**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thank you so much for the wonderful reviews – I'm glad you guys liked that! :D**

 **And now...  
**

* * *

 **III**

.

The madman managed to keep his seat while his ghost stallion dropped to all fours – then swore viciously when the great beast reared a second time. Had he no head, Christine would be convinced that she had slipped into the illusory town of Sleepy Hollow and encountered the Headless Horseman. That legend had been in a book at Greenwich Hall, the text of which she'd been unable to read as a small girl, but she had observed its frightful illustrations. They had reminded her of the spine-chilling tale of the Harvest Monster that her cousins enjoyed taunting her with as a child.

Wide-eyed, Christine scooted back on her hips and hands. To her chagrin, her cloak caught under the heel of her shoe, and she did not travel far.

" ** _What the devil are you doing down there?_** "

Devil…yes, the analogy fit him well.

The demon phantom regarded her darkly once his horse was under control. To her utmost shock, from those same lips came a cadence of velvet-soft words in an exotic sounding dialect as he worked to calm his horse, patting its neck with a black-gloved hand.

She stared in mute astonishment, disbelieving that such a beautiful, silvery voice could issue forth from the same tongue that had cursed her so harshly. And why in God's name did he wear a mask? She knew in truth the apparition _was_ a man, not some demonic fairy of lore, but surely he wasn't a highwayman, setting out for the night in his dastardly plot to rob from the hapless who traveled through the countryside in their fine coaches...

Yet why wouldn't he be? From what little she'd seen, he certainly fit the role of a villain in disguise.

Noticing her fixed attention to his face, he turned his angry focus back on her, his scowl thunderous, his eyes glinting in what little moonlight there was.

"Have you no tongue in your head? **_Speak, woman!_** Or are you a night wraith sent out to bedevil my horse?"

She blinked with astonishment that they had shared a similar thought, though his was most absurd – surely it was **_he_** who was the wraith! Did he not ride the devil's own stallion? And was it not **_she_** who sat trembling on the ground?

"I fell." An inane remark, but her mind felt numb with what to say, much less how to think it.

An impatient sound, between a growl and a snort, issued from his throat. "And so, is it your intent to remain seated in the middle of the road the entire night?"

His question, posed more as a command, was the impetus needed to propel Christine to scramble to her feet, albeit awkwardly, at the same time she noticed his hat on the ground. Plucking it up, she dusted the light colored dirt off the black crown with her still shaking fingers and felt a wave of remorse to note the wide brim of the fedora was badly creased. She winced to realize his horse must have trodden on it, and how frightfully close she had come to the stallion having trodden on her.

Suppressing every taut nerve in her body that told her to run fast and far and have nothing more to do with either of them, she nervously approached the two beasts and handed the hat back up to the one who spoke. Even this close, he remained in shadow, difficult to see well.

The masked man took his fedora without a word, his frown deep and apt at divulging his thoughts.

"I'm sorry about your hat," she said at last and winced at just how foolish she sounded.

He expelled a heavy breath. "Madame, if you cannot use the good sense I would hope you were born with, then do me the courtesy to cease from prowling about the countryside at night. Next time you might not be so fortunate."

With those clipped but silken words, he dug his booted heels into the horse's flanks and was off in a blur of ghostly white and ghoulish black.

Feeling unjustly slighted, Christine whipped around in the direction she'd come, staring at his departing cloaked figure, her mouth open wide in shock.

Never mind that his form of address was incorrect or that he had not bothered to find out otherwise; he'd spoken to her as if she were nothing more than an imprudent child out wandering alone in the darkness! Could he not see that she traveled with baggage? Her baggage…

Looking anxiously around, Christine spotted her valise where she had dropped it at the edge of the road when she went in search of her runaway peach.

Alright, so he couldn't tell that she was a weary traveler abandoned at the fork of an unfamiliar road. That gave him no cause to treat her so boorishly – she certainly did not _intend_ for his horse to fly into a panic or his hat to get trampled. His beast had mashed her peach to a pulp as well, yet she still managed to respond with civility and kindness. Why, he had not even inquired after the state of her health, though she had fallen directly across his path…

Christine sighed and dusted the back of her skirts off to the best of her ability before resuming her journey on foot. The unwelcome recollection of the dour, masked stranger relentlessly crowded into her mind. She took scant notice of her hazy surroundings or the rasping screech of night insects, for the moment forgetting her childish dread of the dark - so concentrated was she on her upsetting encounter with the devil rider.

x

When she cleared the top of a low hill and came suddenly upon Manoir de Thornfield looming up from the mist in the distance, Christine gasped in nervous wonder, nearly dropping her valise.

Never had she seen so enormous a manor, so impressive a dwelling – certainly larger than Greenwich Hall! It must be the size of a castle, though she had never seen a true castle, either, only dreamt of them, with her imagination as a guide, fed by the delightful stories of fantasy she'd read and illustrations penned.

Twin turrets with conical tops flanked the stone edifice, which was a light gray color in the moonlight and appeared at least four stories tall, bearing windows too numerous to count. A few on the main floor spilled the welcome glow of lamplight onto the grounds, while the arched and rectangular panes of the upper floors were a dull and unwelcome slate black in direct counterpoint to their cheerier neighbors.

Christine chided her fanciful mind and took the tree-lined path up to a circular dirt drive and a series of steps that ended in huge twin doors. Perhaps, arriving as a servant, she should locate a back entrance. But she was too exhausted to hunt the walls of the massive edifice for another door. And so, taking a shaky breath of resolve, she lifted the lion's head knocker and rapped five times.

It seemed a small eternity before the great door was at last opened by a young uniformed maid. Christine asked for M. Fairfax, how the correspondence was signed, and was led to a small back parlor lit solely by a low fire. There a plump, matronly woman in a black dress and white muslin apron sat in a rocker, a golden tabby nestled comfortably on her lap. The cat looked up at Christine with baleful green-gold eyes. The woman looked at her in question. Gray sausage curls peeked from beneath her white frilled cap.

"May I help you?"

"I am Christine Daaé. I believe I'm expected."

The woman eyed her up and down in uncertainty. " _You_ answered the advertisement? You seem terribly young for a governess."

Christine expected that. No matter that she recently turned eighteen, her countenance was often misleading. At least her form had filled out in all the womanly places and was better suited to her age, thin though it was.

"I have spent the past year and a half at Lindenwood Institution as a teacher to sixty-four young girls. I assure you, Madame, that I am well qualified to instruct one of them."

The woman chuckled at her solemn words, much to Christine's astonishment, and set the cat on the floor, rising from her chair to approach. Madame looked her over from head to toe then nodded.

"Adrienne is unlike other girls her age, as you will soon discover. At present she's upstairs sleeping. You will meet her tomorrow."

"Your daughter is…difficult?" Christine probed gently. "I assure you I've had experience with difficult children."

"Oh – Adrienne isn't my daughter. I am Madame Fairfax, the housekeeper at Thornfield." She took up a candlestick and lit it. "Come, I'll show you to your room."

Led back to the front foyer, Christine had a vague impression of dark scrolled woodwork, with few gas lamps lit along the stairwell, as she trudged behind Madame Fairfax along a staircase that wound upward to the second landing. The housekeeper led the way and opened a door at the far end of the corridor then turned back to look at Christine with some concern.

"Goodness child, I trust the journey wasn't too difficult. You sound winded, as though you walked the entire way here."

"That wouldn't be far from the truth, but only as far as the fork in the road."

Christine studied the room of chartreuse, burgundy, and gold furnishings that held a bed larger than she had ever slept in, a dresser with _a mirror_ , a huge wardrobe, and a colorful rug laid out in front of a small hearth.

Surely, there had been some mistake…

"This is where I'm to sleep?" she asked, unable to mask her astonishment. She had been prepared for a servants' wing with cramped space – not the decadent luxury of a guest chamber.

"Oui. Your quarters are close to that of Mademoiselle Adrienne's. Tell me, why did the coach not bring you directly to the manor? At least the driver should have taken you to the inn, so that our driver could be sent for to collect you."

Christine would rather put the tedious incident behind her as nothing could be accomplished by drudging up an accounting of her small woes. Recalling her unnerving encounter with the masked man, she was of a mind to relate the near catastrophe and hopefully clear up the mystery, but thought better of it. No sense laying out her blunders, one by one, and making a worse impression. Though she didn't believe herself to be _entirely_ at fault in the matter of the phantom madman. Besides, another question niggled at her mind that begged an explanation.

"Madame Fairfax, if you are the housekeeper here, who then is my employer?"

"That would be the Maestro."

"The _Maestro_?" Christine's brows arched faintly at the rather bizarre title.

"The master of Thornfield – Maestro is how he prefers to be addressed. He gave me leave to put the advertisement in the paper for a governess." Mrs. Fairfax spoke as she bustled about, turning down the bed. "He doesn't make his permanent home here, hasn't for some time. But you are fortunate – he's just returned from Paris, though has retired to his rooms for the evening. You will meet with him tomorrow. Now, would you like a cup of tea to warm you? Perhaps a nice bowl of soup? I have some freshly made."

Unaccustomed to such thoughtfulness, Christine did not immediately reply.

"Thank you, no, I think I would prefer to retire. It's been a trying journey." At the moment exhaustion trumped hunger.

The kindly woman nodded and moved to the door. "Breakfast is at seven. We will go over your daily schedule then."

With the room to herself, Christine cast a curious glance at the walls of flocked paper and set her valise on the bed, pulling from it what she would need for the night. Removing her dress, she laid it over a damask-covered chair that sat by a hearth, the presence of which assured Christine that once winter's chill set in, she would slumber in warmth.

She pulled her wrapper on over her chemise and sat before the oval mirror, curious to be given one. She had seen her reflection before, of course, in the handheld mirror she purchased in town shortly after becoming a teacher, along with a matching hairbrush. Vanities, surely, which is why she'd kept both well hidden, though once she graduated from student to teacher, the staff had been less strict in denying her privileges.

Letting down her hair from its pins, she unbraided the thick plait and set about brushing the curls that fell to the middle of her back. Once the severe Madame Dartmeir left the institution in Christine's seventh year there, her hair again grew with the passage of months into years, and no other instructor denied her its length.

Perhaps it was folly, though she wouldn't call it vain, but once she brushed the ringlets to a glossy mantle about her shoulders, she chose to leave her hair down, instead of again braiding the locks into their usual plait. It was such a small thing, but it was freedom, and she relished it. On the practical side, it was also warm, and she never planned to suffer another cold night.

An odd twist of her insides, a churning sensation that she was being watched, led her to spin about in her chair to scan the room.

The chamber was as empty as before, and she clucked under her breath at her foolishness to jump at phantom shadows. A painting, one of two hanging in the room, caught her eye, and she studied it from where she sat. At first glance, it appeared to be the sea before a storm, as observed from dry land, but with the subtle use of indigo and white, a more chilling scenario appeared to present itself in the oils…

Before she could rise from her chair to satisfy her curiosity and inspect the artwork more closely, the door creaked open. She swung her head around in alarm.

A young girl stood on the threshold, peering back over her shoulder before slipping inside and again shutting the door. Clearly she had just scrambled from bed, her little feet bare, her small body clad in a long white nightdress. With hair long, dark and braided, and eyes almost black, she stared at Christine.

This then must be her new charge.

" _You're_ the new governess?" the girl asked, her tone somewhat imperious.

Christine decided this first time not to scold the child for her discourtesy to enter without first knocking. "I am. You may call me Mademoiselle Daaé. And are you Adrienne?"

"Oui." The girl pursed her lips, keeping Christine under close scrutiny. "You are not so ugly as the others, I suppose – certainly you are much younger. Do you not have to tie rag ribbons in your hair to make all those curls?" A hint of envy crept into her voice. "Hmm. Your eyes are too large for your face – like the tragic heroine of an opera. And why is your skin so pale? Nurse Lita says it is the sun that makes the skin rosy. Do you not like the sun, mademoiselle…?"

Taken aback by the child's scattered questions and ill-mannered comments, Christine regarded Adrienne in silence. None of the girls she'd taught were quite so forward, having the insolence wrung from them in their early days at Lindenwood, and from what she recalled of her own childhood, she had never been so brash, not without just cause.

"The hour is late, and my journey has been long," Christine said with gentle authority. "Tomorrow, at a more reasonable hour, we may resume this conversation and get to know one another. For now, mademoiselle, you should return to bed."

The girl hesitated, as if she might argue, then lightly shrugged in indifference and retraced her steps to the door.

"Mademoiselle Adrienne," Christine said and waited for the girl to look back. "In future, you must always knock when the door is closed before entering someone's chamber. It is considered impolite to do otherwise."

"The Maestro never knocks," the girl informed her with an air of privileged superiority, as if she had every right to be without manners since the owner of the house ignored their principal structure.

"You are not the Maestro."

The girl frowned at that but left without further disagreement, and Christine sighed as the door closed and she was once again left to her thoughts. For the first time since she left Lindenwood she felt doubt and hoped her slim training would be adequate enough to instruct the audacious Adrienne and please her absent employer.

xXx

After a night of disturbing dreams that she could barely recall upon waking, Christine dressed and hurried downstairs, immediately encountering a servant who told her she was expected in the breakfast room.

Following the maid's directions, Christine found a small room with airy butter-yellow and mint flower-sprigged walls. A large domed window faced east and looked out over a long stretch of lawn edged by forest. Madame Fairfax bustled in with a cheery good morning and instructed Christine to sit. Another maid came in behind her, setting down before Christine a plate with a poached egg, a slice of toast with marmalade and a cup of steaming tea.

The housekeeper drank from her own teacup, urging Christine to eat. Christine folded her hands and bowed her head with a silent and hasty blessing. Famished, she made quick work of her meal while Madame Fairfax instructed her on the details regarding Adrienne's schedule and the hours Christine was to be available.

"You are to have half days on Sundays and the evenings to call your own. You may have free use of the manor to roam, but are not to go near the north wing; that is the Maestro's quarters. It is also advisable that you steer clear of the third level rooms. Many are in sad disrepair." She sighed. "It is unfortunate the Maestro so infrequently visits – if he remained, he could restore this manor to the grandeur Thornfield once knew." She shook her head and took a sip of tea. "Where was I? Oh yes - Mademoiselle Adrienne takes breakfast and supper with her nurse, but will share luncheon with you. While the Maestro remains at Thornfield, you are welcome to eat your supper with me in my parlor or take it in your room, whichever you prefer…"

"May I ask a question?" Christine inserted once the housekeeper finished with her comprehensive list of rules.

"Of course."

"The Maestro – is he not Adrienne's father?" She found it odd that Adrienne had also spoken of him by that name.

Madame Fairfax looked troubled but smiled, and Christine wondered if she imagined any discomfiture.

"Adrienne is his ward. Also, as he is now in residence, you shall instruct Adrienne in her rooms. When the Maestro is away, you may have your sessions in the library if you prefer. Under no circumstances are you to approach the Maestro unless he sends for you. He doesn't like to be disturbed."

Christine mulled over the cautionary words. By all intents and purposes, she was not to go near the Maestro, and she wondered if he disliked those servants he employed or all people in general. Surely, he must care for his ward, to see so well to her needs.

"May I go there to collect books I deem suitable for instruction?"

"Tonight, once the Maestro is in his rooms, you may visit then. Until that time you will need to make do with what you have, since he's to occupy the library the remainder of the day in order to resolve problems with his tenants and see to affairs of the estate."

"Problems?" Christine knew it wasn't her business, but the question slipped out.

"Quite normal, in the order of things. With the neglect the manor has known these ten years past, the troubles have piled layer upon layer."

She sighed again, and no more was said as they finished their tea.

Upstairs, minutes later, Christine entered Mademoiselle Adrienne's rooms, first giving a knock to alert the occupants inside of her presence, also hoping the girl might learn from her better example. Christine did not relish a second incident of nearly jumping out of her skin due to abrupt entrances.

The gloomy, dour child from last night had dissolved into a bright cheery girl who greeted Christine with a wide smile of delight. A ribbon of red prevented her glossy dark hair from falling into her face and wearing a pale cream-colored muslin dress with matching red florets sewn into the puffed sleeves and skirt, the girl reminded Christine of a little princess.

"Ah, there you are, _mia governante! Buongiorno. Come stai?_ Do you know Italian? No. A pity. This is my Nurse Elita. She teaches me the language. I hope the Maestro will be pleased with all I have learned in his absence! I learned two new lines from a play too – would you like to hear them?" Before Christine had a chance to draw breath for a reply, ten-year-old Adrienne launched into a dramatic oration, lifting her clasped hands together and watching as she held them high above her head.

"'Yea, noise? Then I'll be brief. O happy dagger, this is thy sheath. There rust and let me die!'" She slammed her clasped hands down to her heart and gracefully collapsed on the floor in a flurry of cream muslin and red florets.

Christine gawked at the dramatic display.

 _Good heavens._

Adrienne cracked open an eye from her supine position. "Do you not like Shakespeare? You're supposed to applaud," she informed helpfully, then pushed herself up to sit. "As an author I find him quite tragic. I adore Romeo and Juliet though they were rather silly – don't you agree? All that balcony nonsense." She jumped to a stand. "I can sing too – would you like to hear me? I learned a lovely new aria." She opened her mouth to begin, when a look of regret clouded her dark eyes. "No, I just ate, that won't do. The Maestro wouldn't like it, and he's sure to know. He knows everything. Do you sing, Mademoiselle Daaé?"

Christine felt quite breathless from the whirlwind display, not sure how the girl wasn't gasping for air or how her thoughts didn't get all muddled and could find clear exit with her endless stream of words. Unprepared for the question that for over a decade brought only unwelcome attention and heartache, she managed a "Not really," before insisting that Adrienne take a seat at the table and calm herself before she fell over and truly dropped dead.

The nurse had at some time during the proceedings disappeared, and Christine set a piece of parchment and quill with an inkpot in front of her student.

"I have been witness to your dramatic talents," Christine said, "now let us see how you perform in other skills. Are you able to write your letters?"

Adrienne sniffed imperiously. "Of course."

"Good. Please commit to paper the lines of Shakespeare you just recited."

The girl's dark eyes sparkled. "May I write down all of Juliet's soliloquy from Act 5?"

Surprised but pleased with her pupil's eagerness to apply herself to penmanship, Christine smiled and gave her permission.

The following hours Christine spent ascertaining the level of Adrienne's knowledge in the rudimentary skills, so as to proceed with her education. Luncheon was spent in learning more about the precocious girl, a topic Adrienne embarked on with gusto, and Christine noticed how often allusions to the mysterious Maestro entered their conversation. The remainder of their time together Christine assessed her ability with more womanly pastimes involving the needle in three areas – basic sewing, needlepoint, and knitting – finding all areas to be sadly deficient. Even with a bevy of servants at the girl's behest to sew on a button or darn a pair of stockings, Madame Fairfax said that such skills were required for the child to learn. It wasn't Christine's place to question, only to follow orders given, and she could see her success to train in those domestic skills would be sorely challenged.

A quiet supper of beef and potato soup and bread with Madame Fairfax helped Christine relax, but when a maid entered the room and told her that the Maestro requested Mademoiselle Daaé's presence in the main parlor, mad butterflies cavorted within her stomach.

Madame Fairfax gave her a nod of encouragement and Christine left the room. Adrienne came flitting down the stairs like an excited little bird before Christine found her way to the main parlor.

"Mademoiselle Daaé – there you are! Has the Maestro sent for you too? Oh, how simply lovely. I hope he brought a present – he often does when he's been gone for so long, though he wasn't happy with me when he left. But he did promise to bring a doll when I asked for a flaxen-haired one. Do you believe he might still be angry and has forgotten?"

Christine smiled in reassurance, uncertain what answers to give since she didn't yet know her employer. Adrienne reached for Christine's hand, and she realized with a little shock just how nervous the child was, which did little to help ease her own nerves.

They had almost reached the open doors of the main parlor, golden firelight pouring out onto the marble floor, when Adrienne tugged on Christine's arm for her to bend her ear closer.

"Whatever you do," she said quietly, almost a whisper, "don't speak of his mask."

Any modicum of warmth Christine felt from the inviting glow of the cozy parlor froze to icicles in her breast at the child's telltale words - and her first glimpse of the impressive figure of the tall gentleman wearing a black frock coat and dark trousers. He stood before the large open hearth with his back to them, his hands held behind him.

"Adrienne, come inside and don't dally about," he said without turning. "You know I don't like to be kept waiting."

Christine had no need to see his face to understand the identity of the Maestro. That powerful deep voice that both commanded obeisance and coaxed free will was unmistakable…

And then he turned and spotted her.

Her breath caught in her throat as she met the green glint of his eyes completely surrounded by black leather – the fire in the grate behind surely adding to the illusion of golden sparks within his orbs, as if they, too, burned. She felt strangely trapped and unprepared, as if she'd again fallen in the middle of the road before him, helpless and at his mercy, with nowhere to run…

xXx

* * *

 **A/N: Oh, dear… (muahahaha) bit o' trivia- the Headless Horseman legend dates back to the middle ages in various forms. I decided to go ahead and include the nod to Sleepy Hollow, since it is the most widely known. W. Irving wrote the poem while abroad in England, and though it was published in 1820 America, the book of short stories** ** _could_** **have found its way into the library of a French manor three decades later…(aw, heck - with the season, I just had to tag it, since it fit well for my plot. So there. ;-))**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I really really wanted to give you guys a chapter for Christmas (even though it's not Christmas themed this time), but with that said, please forgive any mistakes. – I'm in the last strains (I hope) of a bad cold, and with a congested head and fever, it's hard to discern words or how they should be phrased at times – everything blurs together after a while - lol- and I wrote and edited the last two scenes while I was sick. I'm feeling a tad better and don't think I made any major mistakes like giving Erik two heads or anything like that. ;-). I'll go back over it again when I'm well, to polish in more detail – I just didn't want to leave you guys with nothing this weekend. Hope you like, thanks for all previous reviews – and Merry Christmas! :D**

* * *

 **IV**

.

The inscrutable master of Thornfield watched Adrienne approach and curtsy, while Christine nervously edged further back into the shadows beyond the threshold.

"Welcome home, Maestro," the child said carefully as though coached. "I am pleased you are back. I trust you had a good journey. Did you bring me anything?"

The Maestro gave a soft little snort and looked beyond her, to Christine.

"You there – come into the light where I can see you."

Christine inhaled a stabilizing breath and lifted her chin, preparing herself once again to meet his scorn. She approached, much more slowly than Adrienne, and sensed his impatience in the slight squint of his eyes – or perhaps, the recognition.

Tall, dark, and brooding, the master was all of these, the fire-lit parlor not having changed that about his appearance. She waited anxiously for him to speak.

"You are the new governess?"

"Oui, monsieur."

"Your name?" This said with a thread of cynical amusement.

"Christine Daaé."

He surveyed her from head to foot. "And do you play, Miss Daaé?"

"What?" Completely taken off guard by the unexpected question she could only stare.

He motioned to one corner of the room where she now noticed a small piano stood.

"Play…" she repeated dumbly, her mind recording the fact that he made no mention of the previous night's incident on the road. Perhaps it had been too dark for him to see her features clearly. Perhaps the cowl of her cloak had hidden her face from view. Perhaps in his irate mood he had taken little note of her bedraggled appearance, which in its present state was certainly much changed and more respectable - her gown, a demure gray, with a simple white ruff at the throat and matching cuffs edging her sleeves. Every strand of her hair pinned and neatly in place.

"At the institution where I lived and later taught, a piano was donated a little over a year ago."

"That is not what I asked, all of it useless information to me. I asked if _you_ play."

She clenched her teeth, her relief great that he did not recognize her, but exasperation with his less than chivalrous manner was starting to take an edge.

"A little," she said reluctantly.

Again he motioned toward the piano. When she made no move to go there, he added a rather sardonic, "Please, if you will."

Christine consoled herself that his words somewhat resembled a request and did not come across as an outright order. Of course, she was in service to his household, so resigned herself that she must accustom herself to his sharp tongue. At least she'd had plenty of experience with that sort of thing while growing up.

Woodenly she approached the instrument and sat on the stool before it, nervously placing the pads of her fingers on the cool ivory keys. Only in recent years had music been allowed in Lindenwood, though she continued to keep her song a secret. Still, the inherent pull of music, always a part of her, had drawn her to discover how to combine the proper notes in those calm hours she could call her own.

In her present state of nervousness, with the master of the manor watching with his mesmeric, hawk-like eyes, intent within the sockets of that strange black mask, her fingers refused fully to cooperate. She managed to pound out several lines of a hymn, biting her tongue to prevent herself from quietly singing them and giving the raucous chords some measure of relief.

"'A little' is an apt description," the Maestro said dryly between unevenly spaced notes. Before she quite finished, he marched over to the piano and riffled through some papers sitting in a stack atop the glossy dark wood. "Play this," he ordered, spreading the sheets before her.

"I cannot read the music," she admitted, staring at the strange black squiggles spaced above, under, and within the sketched rows of lines.

"How then did you learn what little you know?" His tone registered his surprise.

"I taught myself." She looked fully at him, noting the spark that now lit his eyes.

"You had no teacher to instruct you?"

"No." She pulled her hands away from the keys to settle them clasped in her lap.

"Maestro?" a small voice nearby asked.

He blew out an impatient breath. "Yes, Adrienne, I have not forgotten you. Tomorrow we will resume your lessons. You will find that which you so desperately wish for in a box on the sofa, you greedy child. Go and content yourself with it, and leave me to speak with your governess."

A soft little squeal was followed by a rustle of muslin and taffeta as Adrienne eagerly scampered to the designated area, shortly followed by another squeal when she opened the box there.

The master's eyes never moved from Christine's face. Likewise she did not look away.

"I do not like it when people stare," he commanded gravely.

She did not point out that he was doing exactly that. Clenching her jaw, she looked down at the gold threads of his maroon waistcoat.

"Such an intense frown marks your smooth brow," he pondered, his tone oddly softer. "I wonder what concern has put you in such deep contemplation? Do you pout because I stated my preference?"

She hardly felt as though she were pouting.

"It's no concern, just a thought."

"Well?" he prodded when she said no more.

"It isn't my place to say," she said primly. "I'm only the governess."

"Hang propriety! I would know your mind – and speak the truth, mademoiselle. I shall know it if you lie and try to placate me with foolish fancies."

"What cause have I to speak with pretense?" She again looked at his stern countenance, reminding herself that she had dealt with far worse in her short span upon the earth. "Very well, if you're certain…"

He scoffed. "I would not have instructed you to say your piece if I wished for anything less."

"I only wonder that you do not question me about my skills in the position for which you have hired me, or even inquire about my history as it pertains to my position. Since I have come here, you have not said one word about my duties or seek to know any pertinent information about the woman you employed to train your ward, which I find unsettling. Even bizarre. You seem more interested in my musical expertise, which was _not_ part of the duties required of a governess, according to the notice your housekeeper put in the post. I did not come to Thornfield to entertain, but to teach."

At this his brow rose, evident by the way his mask shifted upward. She squeezed her fingers still resting in her lap, wondering if she'd been too forthright.

"By God – _finally_ , a woman who's not afraid to speak her mind!" He chuckled lightly in sardonic amusement, though his eyes glittered strangely with approval. "And how do you find me, mademoiselle?"

Christine hesitated. "Pardon?"

"Come now, it's a simple question. Do not disappoint and relieve me of your refreshing candor."

Given her station and that he was her master, she should hold her tongue – but found it impossible to withhold her viewpoint and was only too happy to obey. Even so, she had no wish to be cruel.

She phrased her answer carefully. "You are a man of evident power. You like to intimidate and are under the impression that bullying is the simplest way to achieve what you want from others…"

She paused and he nodded for her to go on.

"You belittle kindness and scorn imperfection, rejecting any form of apology," she stated, recalling the previous night's encounter with him. "For all that, you are..."

"A monster?" he supplied, his dark voice soft yet filled with venom. "A beast?"

"An enigma."

He exhaled a cynical huff through his nostrils. "Interesting. And are you a mage, mademoiselle? A seer into the soul, to discern such things?"

"I have two eyes and can only speak from my own experience."

"Ah," he said with an emphatic nod. "There it is. You deviated from the original question."

He took a step closer and to her shock, lowered his body so that they were eye to eye. She noted that specks of bright gold flecked the yellow-green of his irises, a color most unusual and intense. A cat's eyes, and she felt cornered, like a helpless little bird.

"I'll ask again – what is it that you _see_?"

Christine blinked at his close proximity, feeling a peculiar wave of dizziness.

"See…?"

"Am I not a handsome fellow?" he asked with pure contempt. "A prince among men?"

Adrienne had warned her not to mention it, but Christine never was able to curb her tongue when the opportunity arose to speak her mind, especially when asked her honest opinion. If this was a test, she was about to fail miserably.

"I wouldn't know monsieur – the mask covers too much of your face to enable a truthful response."

His mesmerizing eyes flickered, as if surprised by her frankness. Her attempt at confidence might be believed if her words had not emerged so soft and breathless.

"Do I frighten you, Mademoiselle Daaé? The mask, does it _frighten_ you?"

Unobtrusively, she pinched her hand to bring her sharply out of her odd daze.

"I would be foolish indeed to fear a piece of leather. There are true terrors in this world much more deserving of my horror. You are abrupt in your manner, even harsh, which can be a discomfort to those around you, but no, you do not frighten me, monsieur. As for appearances and what matters – since you spoke of the soul – true beauty is found inside it, with how one treats others."

"So you _do_ find me ugly?"

"In that respect, sir – quite."

To her astonishment, he let out a great laugh. Rich and deep, it did something strange to her midsection, the sensation like a soft shimmer of warmth to her innermost regions. Suddenly he straightened to stand.

"Spoken like a true member of the pious society that calls itself righteous! Hypocrites all of them…" His amusement made a sharp turn toward bitterness. "The nuns would applaud your steadfastness to their teachings."

"I wouldn't know. I've never encountered one."

He looked surprised. "Then you don't believe in the existence of God?"

"I didn't say that. I believe God exists, and pray to Him every evening. But I wasn't taught by nuns. The institution that I mentioned earlier, where I was raised and received my training as a teacher, is a girl's orphanage, yes, but not one run by nuns. The man who brought me there was the local parson, but the instructors were of no holy order. Only spinsters."

"An orphanage," he said softly, and Christine mentally prepared for her dismissal.

He studied her so long that for a moment she forgot to breathe, realizing it when he again spoke.

"I did not inquire after your teaching skills, because your expertise in education or lack thereof will inevitably surface over your time here at Thornfield, as will any pertinent information regarding your character that I should know. Already I perceive you to be somewhat intelligent, though not always acting with good sense, firm in your beliefs, and courageous to a fault. It is fortunate for you that I admire a bit of daring, rare to find in a woman, and am not offended nor afflicted by your sharp tongue…"

Her mouth parted in shock at his rather degrading but apt character analysis.

"Do you take offense by my words?" he asked softly.

"I am hardly in a position to complain."

"To hell with position! I want to know what _you_ think."

She tilted her head in consideration. "I suppose it is fair play that you should give your analysis of my character since I did the same for yours."

"Fair play..." He said the words as if he did not comprehend their meaning. "There is little justice in this world, mademoiselle, make no mistake, and certainly nothing 'fair' about it."

Christine sensed his grim words hid something bone deep, but felt she had been too outspoken for one evening to inquire and withheld a response.

Several more seconds of tense silence elapsed before he spoke.

"That is all I require of you. You may go."

Christine half-wondered at the permanency of his remark with regard to her future there, and if she was expected to plan Adrienne's lessons for the following day or pack her bags and leave Thornfield at once.

She was halfway to the door, when he stopped her.

"Mademoiselle Daaé, there is one last matter…"

She awaited what he would say but did not again turn to look at him.

"I trust that in your repertoire of activities planned for yourself and Adrienne, you will commit all walks to within the grounds – and keep from straying like a restless spirit along the roads at night? I should like to keep the one hat I have left."

The flush of mortification heated her face at his words. Relieved that she stood with her back to him, Christine closed her eyes to know that she had concealed nothing from the master of Thornfield. He had recognized her. After a moment, she forced herself to turn and face him.

"I assure you, monsieur, I am not given to wandering outdoors at night."

His smile was wry. "I am relieved to hear it."

"I was abandoned by my driver and forced to set out to the manor on foot." Though he asked for no explanation, she gave it then balled her hands at her sides. "And I _am_ sorry about your hat."

"So you have said." He gave a gracious nod, though his eyes mocked her. "Apology accepted."

His dip into mercy reminded her of her earlier disparaging assessment of his character, and she lowered her eyes, presuming with the wry twist he had given the words he remembered also.

"Thank you, monsieur. If there is nothing else?"

"No, you may go."

This time, she asked.

"For the present, or for all time to come?"

His lips turned up at one corner in a twisted smile.

"Is it your wish to stay at Thornfield?"

"Yes, of course." She had no need to think twice; certainly Thornfield was strange, even mysterious, its inhabitants adding their own eccentricities to life at the manor, but it still outshone Lindenwood, as fiercely as the sun outshone the moon.

"I shall not question Madame Fairfax's decision to hire you – I gave her authority in that respect. Go now, and tend to your duties."

"Oui, monsieur."

Christine resisted the inane urge to curtsy as if he were royalty and gave a small, deferential nod. She exited the room, expecting to be called back at any moment, and once over the threshold, she couldn't resist the foolish temptation to look over her shoulder.

Again the Master of the manor stood with his back to her and stared into the fire.

 **xXx**

Clasping his hands behind his back, Erik listened to Christine's quiet footfalls as they receded toward the stairwell. His conversation with her had been enlightening, though he sensed the governess withheld secrets, as did he.

Her youthful countenance and innocent aura would suggest the opposite. But one look into those deep brown eyes veiled within depths of mystery told him there was much more to Christine Daaé than appearances would suggest...

His sharp hearing picked up the quiet rustle of skirts approach from behind.

"Monsieur?"

He turned to regard Adrienne. She clutched the new doll to her chest.

"Merci boucoup." A hopeful smile lifted her lips. "It is what I wanted."

"Hmm." He lifted his chin and stared down at her. "I trust you have not been giving your new governess a difficult time?"

"Monsieur?"

Her dark brown eyes shimmered with an angelic sort of innocence he knew to be false.

Erik frowned. "I will not have another incident like last time. You will be respectful toward Mademoiselle Daaé and mindful of her orders – and conjure no tricks."

She sighed. "The other governess was old and smelled funny. At least the powder that poured down on her smelled nice."

 _"Adrienne!"_

At the sharp warning in his voice, she grudgingly nodded. "I promise."

"Very well - run along. I expect you in the music room at promptly eleven o'clock in the morning. We will then learn if you earned that new little trifle, or not. "

Her brow puzzled in displeasure but she gave a faint, "Oui, Monsieur," and did as ordered.

Erik turned back to look into the snapping flames, putting off his last duty of the night as long as was feasibly possible.

Christine Daaé was far from old, certainly looking younger than her years. Nor was the scent she gave off in any manner unpleasant. The aroma of roses emanated from her body…of the crimson variety. Sweet but potent, and heady…

After his nocturnal encounter with her, he found her to be quite headstrong as well.

Grimly he shook his head, letting his eyes fall shut.

He had no business dwelling on the little governess. True, she stood taller than most women, but was slight of form – indeed, near skin and bones. Distractedly he wondered if she ate like a bird, as did the few women of his acquaintance, those simple-minded ninnies pecking at their plates like sparrows.

He presumed they ate like cows when in private and only adopted the pretense of such dainty eating habits in public due to the foolish strains of social etiquette or some such nonsense. He, himself, rarely dined when in the company of others, and those few times he succumbed, then only nibbled, but for a far different reason. To manage his food properly, he must remove his mask, and for no mortal would he perform that frightful act.

Those few who did not fear him in his mask flocked to him, yet still they remained ill at ease in his presence. He did not flatter himself that any womanly interest in him was for his company or appearance. He had long known himself to be a monster, had been told often enough, since he was a child. But apparently, if a monster had a large estate and excessive wealth that was enough to disregard whatever horrific visage the mask hid and incite interest, even if only superficial. At least it was in the case of one Signora Carlotta, the brunt of the joke being played on her, though she might never know it...

Oh, how he would dearly love to apprise her of the fact one day.

Miss Christine Daaé, however…was different. During their initial encounter on the dark road, he had for one fanciful moment supposed her a ghost, and their most recent meeting felt no less ethereal. She exhibited a wary caution in his presence last night, but under the circumstances it was to be expected. Tonight, she spoke to him nearly as to an equal, without any false simpering or true fear to shape her words. At no time, in the course of his wretched existence, could he recall that to have happened with any young woman…and the effect was as heady to his mind as her scent was to his memory…

No! Confound it all – he must stop dwelling on the new governess.

Determined to attend to that which he had no desire to visit, he called out in his thundering voice for Madame Fairfax, knowing she would be waiting nearby for his summons.

 **xXx**

Upon leaving the parlor, Christine hastened up the winding stairwell to her room, with each step dreading to hear his beautiful voice call her back to him once more. Dreading…

And anticipating…

Briskly she shook such a rash thought from her head and patted her fingers to her flushed cheeks.

While this first required meeting had gone relatively well and better than expected, that certainly did not mean she wished to spend time in the Master's presence! Perish the thought.

He may be no spectral entity, but there was something equally disturbing about his persona…something that made her breath catch and hold when he had drawn close and her heart pound like the surf at high tide…

Something not altogether unpleasant, and that was disturbing in and of itself.

Christine entered her bedchamber, and turned up the flame in the lamp bracketed to the wall by the door. Immediately, the painting on the wall caught her eye. The light was too far to reach the framed canvas well, so she lit a candle on the table and brought the candlestick close…

…almost dropping it in nervous shock when she saw her earlier assessment had been correct.

The ghostly face of a woman had been painted in white within the churning sea, blending into the oils so that it was not apparent unless one peered with deep intent.

The wood creaked behind her, and Christine spun around...

But there was no one there.

* * *

 **A/N: I wanted to keep it as much Erik in personality as possible, but also give a flavor of Rochester, especially for this first real meeting...hope you liked! :)  
**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews! :) I love seeing where you guys are with this... After careful consideration, Lowood is now Lindenwood and Gateshead Hall is now Greenwich Hall. (if you went back and reread the chapters, you will find them changed.)**

* * *

 **V**

Christine passed the days studiously learning the way of life at Thornfield. Those hours not spent in service to Adrienne, she slowly familiarized herself with her new home, in those rooms allowed for her to roam.

One such morning, two hours before she was to meet with Adrienne, she wandered along one of the corridors on the main floor. The distant chords of a piano led her to take the bend into another corridor, the music becoming louder and clearer, until she came upon a room whose door stood ajar.

She peered through the crack into a chamber lit with morning sunlight. Of marble flooring and gold-flecked wallpaper above ivory wainscoting, it appeared to be a music room that contained a piano and a harp, all she could see from this angle…

And in the center of her focus, seated stiffly erect on the piano bench, from the breadth of his wide shoulders and the long lines of his lean frame, sat the master.

It was the closest she'd been to him since their official introduction in the parlor, only having observed him at a distance since then, and Christine took a moment to stare. He wore a black frock coat of flawless fit, his hair as glossy as a raven's wing. His large hands and slender fingers spanned octaves.

"Again!" he barked, turning his head in profile. Christine noticed that once more he wore his black leather mask. Indeed, she had never seen him without it.

Adrienne, who stood at the piano's edge, appeared near tears. She began to sing like a little chirruping, hiccuping bird, making even Christine wince.

The Maestro slammed his fingers to the keys in a dissonant thunder.

"No- damn you – NO! You have not followed one instruction given. And tell me, my little glutton, that you did not indulge in a sweetmeat before practice. Do not lie to me…"

"Si - but I was hungry, and they looked so very delicious."

"Rules are made for a reason, Adrienne." His voice came stern but silent. "I have told you _not_ to partake of food before a lesson. You must learn obedience and restraint if you wish for me to continue to teach you. Life is not some silly little play you can fashion as you wish it, and there are times even a dramatic work of fiction evades your every effort for ownership and certainly improvement." His last words came sardonic, beneath his breath, seeming self-directed and not about Adrienne at all.

"I'm sorry, Maestro."

Her voice came as soft as a mouse, and he sighed.

"Again…"

Christine backed away before she could be discovered, recalling orders given never to seek out the master and having no wish to be caught spying. She retreated the way she'd come, the strident notes from the piano fading until only the click of her soles on the tiles could be heard.

This would be a perfect opportunity to visit the library with its bountiful offering of books.

Once inside the massive chamber, Christine stared in awe, feeling adrift. Every wall was filled floor-to-ceiling with books, save for the one, which also contained a large hearth in which a low fire burned. Three tall narrow windows brought light into the room, when their dark damask curtains were drawn to allow it. Around the fire a gathering of hardwood chairs and a small sofa of similar dark material stood, and situated near that sat a large carved desk behind which stood an equally massive leather-and-brass-studded chair. A collection of ledgers and piles of paper sat on the glossy surface of the desk, and on the edge, as if ready to take flight, perched a golden statuette of what Christine recognized as a Firebird from drawings she'd seen in Greek literature.

It was a room built to intimidate, certainly, and she could envision the master holding meetings with his tenants here, as they stood before his desk with hats in hands while quaking in their boots.

There must be _thousands_ of books within this chamber, more than any man could read in one lifetime! She had no idea where to begin to look for suitable material for a ten-year-old girl, and shook her head at a loss, beginning with the bookcase nearest her. Curious about the thick and thin leather volumes far above reach, and wondering how they _were_ reached, she settled for scanning only those to which she had easy access.

The first bookcase contained works of a highly elaborate nature, having to do with the sciences and various eras of history. The second contained the same. The third held biographies. On the fourth she found something acceptable, _Les Contemplations_ , a book with which she was familiar. For now it would suffice.

Christine had spent a great deal of time in her search and felt it wise to leave before the master should return and find her there.

With every intention to revisit and study the many shelves when she would have more time of assured solitude, she quit the library and hastened to the room upstairs that had been assigned for Adrienne's tutelage.

Christine prepared the lesson in short order and now wished she had retrieved a novel for her own enjoyment. She had seen none there, but surely a library so extensive must contain fiction as well as books of instruction and enlightenment. She thumbed through the volume of poetry, seeking those selections she deemed suitable for Adrienne's education as she waited for the precocious child to arrive.

Once Adrienne slipped through the door, she appeared quite glum. Recalling her glimpse into the girl's difficult lesson with the Maestro, Christine felt she understood and did what was feasible to lift her spirits.

"This is a collection of poems I think you will enjoy." She handed Adrienne the book, familiar with the writer, having taught his works before. "The manner in which they are composed is reminiscent of an autobiography. Do you know what an autobiography is?"

"No, mademoiselle," Adrienne sighed, showing scant interest in learning today.

"It is prose or verse that the author uses to tell his own story. In this case, the writer is Victor Hugo. He wrote the poems contained within this volume. It is said they depict the journey of his soul, from grief to acceptance, many of them written after his newly wed daughter, Léopoldine, drowned in the Seine due to a boating accident. Indeed, many of these poems were written with her in mind."

"Oh - but she drowned? How simply tragic!" Adrienne's eyes sparkled with fascination as she clasped her hands to her heart. "And her poor husband – did he also perish?"

"Yes, he did. Along with their unborn child. He drowned while trying to save her."

"Oh, but how terribly romantic – please, will you read these poems to me, mademoiselle?"

"I should like to hear the elocution of your voice and have you read instead."

As expected, Christine's introduction to the book captured the morbid drama the little girl so enjoyed in a tale.

Adrienne showed excitement with the poems thereon, and recited them well, though now and again Christine noticed her gaze travel to the sunny window and what could be seen of the grounds. Twice she had to remind Adrienne to keep her eyes on the text, and only once did she need to correct her pronunciation. Whoever had been governess to the child before Christine had done well in teaching Adrienne to read. Five poems later, the last one of incredible length that spanned pages, Christine deemed today's lesson complete.

"Very nicely done, Adrienne. Such diligence should be rewarded. If you should do well in _all_ your studies for the remainder of this week, we will have a picnic outdoors on Saturday. Would you like that?"

The weather would soon be too cold for such outings, with the advancement of the chill autumn nearly upon them, and Christine also preferred the outdoors when they could be enjoyed.

The girl's eyes went wide. "Truly, mademoiselle?" She smiled. "And may the Maestro come with us?"

Christine hesitated, not having expected such a question. She was surprised to hear it, after what she'd seen of the trials the girl endured that morning, that the child would even want him there.

"The Maestro has much business to conduct now that he's returned to Thornfield. It wouldn't be wise to distract him."

Adrienne gave a long, dramatic sigh. "si, è così..."

Christine smiled tolerantly. "Adrienne, if you wish for me to understand you, you must speak in French. As I told you before, I have no knowledge of Italian, none whatsoever."

"Oh - but then I must teach you! I said – yes, it is so." She nodded emphatically. "Italian is my mother language, what my bambinaia Elita – my nurse – calls it, though I don't remember being in the country of my mother's birth. My mother went to be with the holy Virgin when I was only a babe." She gave another little dramatic sigh. "I was so very young when I arrived to France. My nurse teaches the language to me and says I must know it, so that one day I may go back to my family, if God wills it so."

"But..." Christine looked at her in confusion. "Is the Maestro not your family? I thought he was perhaps an uncle..."

"Oh no – I _think_ of him as an uncle though I do not call him that. He wouldn't be pleased. Elita says I have three uncles, though I've never seen them." She picked up the new doll she had carried in with her and perched it on her knee. "The Maestro calls me his little nuisance. He says I mustn't be so greedy and pester him all the time, but he brings me lovely presents from his many trips, even if I am incorrigible as he says. Isn't she pretty? I wish I had flaxen hair or long curls, like yours. Why do you always pin them up and not let them hang down?"

Christine hardly thought the term of "nuisance" or "incorrigible" a flattery, though Adrienne beamed as though she'd been presented with a grand compliment.

"Your hair is lovely as it is," she said, ignoring the question. "But Adrienne, there are things of much more importance than the color or style of one's hair. One's heart. One's soul. One's mind. With the rest, you must learn to be content."

"I suppose. The Maestro says I favor my mother, though it does not please him to say it. I wish I had a portrait of her to know what she looked like."

There were many curiosities Christine harbored about the relationship between the master and his ward – especially how she'd come to be in his care when she had blood kin. Why did none of the three uncles take her into their homes? But she hardly thought it appropriate to question the girl. In all likelihood, Adrienne was never told the way of things if she'd been little more than a babe when she left her homeland.

Once the girl flitted off with her nursemaid for a special luncheon and trip into the local village, Christine decided to join Madame Fairfax to share the meal with her. The matronly housekeeper greeted her effusively and filled any possible corners of silence with her ceaseless chatter, bemoaning what mistakes the five maids under her charge had created that day, while praising the Maestro's laborious efforts to put estate matters to rights.

"I am curious about something," Christine said when she found a passable segue. "Adrienne's mother. I understand that she died?"

"What?" The woman seemed a mite distracted. "Oh- oh yes. Such a sad plight for the child. The mother died in the year after Adrienne was born. The Maestro took the girl into his care and brought her with him to France. From then on, he made his home here, if you could call it that, what with his many absences…"

"Then she was little more than a babe at the time?"

"Oui, that she was, and a sweeter child I never did see."

"And her uncles?" Christine pressed, her curiosity unsatisfied. "Were they not able to care for her? She mentioned that she's never met them."

"No, no they were not. But really, mademoiselle, you must speak to the Maestro about such things if you want to know more about Adrienne. I know very little about the child's situation and wouldn't wish to speak out of ignorance and lead you astray. Now, where are those scones?" She rose from the table and headed for the door. "Bessie? Bessie, where are you, you lazy girl…?"

Christine resigned herself that she would get no more out of Madame Fairfax, whose cagey manner led her to believe that she knew more than she was willing to say. Perhaps the woman felt it beneath her loyalty to divulge secrets wrapped within family history, if secrets are what they were.

With her meal finished, Christine resumed her solo discovery of her new lodgings.

Thornfield not only contained numerous windows, it had countless corridors, which held rows of doors and twisted this way and that. Within the corridors, doors flanked both sides, save for the west wing and its abundance of narrow panes along the outside wall that faced the vast grounds and forest beyond. Here no candles glowed from brass sconces, as they did in the inside corridors. Here, the sunlight flooded the chamber with brilliance.

Christine found herself beside a wall lined with portraits, family members she assumed. She glanced out one of the windows and noticed a distant tower that jutted at the far end of what she assumed was yet another corridor that led to another wing. The south tower, if her direction was to be trusted.

She looked at the paintings hung by the progression of years, as the manner of clothing and style of hair depicted. Powdered wigs suggested the 18th century, the faces in oil mostly dour. She could make no comparisons to the present master of Thornfield, whose mask shielded many of the characteristics she now studied within the carved and gilt frames. In a more current painting, the powdered wig absent, she found a tall, brooding man with eyes the color of green-gold. Perhaps the Maestro favored him in countenance, certainly in the eyes…

She went on to the next painting, a bright one with colorful flowers, the backdrop a shaded garden. Here a dark-haired man proudly sat on a bench beside a petite woman who stood behind him and to the side, nearly smiling – as much as these proper and pompous ancestral paintings would allow for a smile. Her hand rested gently on her husband's shoulder. A chubby boy of approximately three sat on his knee, and a slender girl with be-ribboned braids, approximately two years older, stood in front of the woman. On the opposite side of the man, a girl of perhaps fourteen stood in an elaborate flounced dress, her curls held back with a single ribbon. A shepherd dog reclined at his master's booted feet. What struck Christine was the prominent scar along the left side of the man's face, at his temple and over his eye.

Was this the reason for the mask? Did the Maestro inherit his ancestor's scars?

At the sound of footsteps, Christine turned her head to see that Madame Fairfax had come to join her.

"You didn't stay for a scone, dear."

"My appetite was satisfied." It would be more truthful to state that she was unaccustomed to eating meals of such great quantity, a lifetime of near-starvation and deprivation forming her meager eating habits.

"Tsk, tsk – if a good wind came up, it would blow you clean to the other side of the village." She turned to look at the painting that had caught Christine's attention. "Ah, Master Edward and his Lady Jane, such a lovely couple. I wasn't yet born when they ruled Thornfield, but my mother had many good things to say about them. He was forthright but kind to those who served his household, and she was a living saint. They lived in England before coming to France – this is actually the second Thornfield. The first, well, there was a bit of mystery involved with that. Indeed, a number of ghost stories arose, some too far-fetched to believe. Of course we have our own ghostly tales to contend with in these parts…"

She sighed and shook her head, though whether her melancholy was associated with the past or the present, it was difficult to tell.

"With so few happy memories to be had there, I suppose it prudent that they sought to build a life in another country. Her father – or perhaps it was her mother – was French, you see." The housekeeper huffed a disgusted breath. "I cannot quite recall; the mind does that with age. But anyhow, there was a fire, in England. Nearly gutted the first house. It's how poor Master Rochester was scarred – went blind when a burning beam struck as he made his escape. Years later he regained sight in one eye, and his story ended happily and not tragically as you might presume. He found the love of a good woman, and they lived many long years together. The tot on his lap is the Maestro's own father. Can't say the same for the kind of wife _he_ found. She was no saint."

She sniffed in disgust as they walked to the next painting.

Rochester.

"That is the Maestro's surname – Rochester?"

Madame Fairfax regarded her with surprise. "Goodness me – did I never tell you?"

"When I first came to Thornfield, I thought Fairfax was the name of my employer, due to our written correspondence. And you only ever call him Maestro, as does Adrienne."

"Yes, well – it is all he wishes to be called by, but to answer your question, yes, the master is Erik Rochester. And these were his parents."

"Were?"

"Both dead. May the good Master Edwin rest in peace. As for her – well, I shouldn't speak ill of the deceased, but she was a horrible woman, that Madeleine. Incredibly beautiful but vain, with a heart cold as ice. Treated the staff with an iron fist. There was a bit of the gypsy about her, I'd swear it. Though I will say this in her favor – she did seem to love her husband above all else. Perhaps it was his untimely death that made her so cruel, and to their own child worst of all. I was a girl, not much older than you, when I served under them. The Maestro up and ran away one night, couldn't have been more than six at the time. Never did return 'til after his mother's death. Well, no, there was the once, when he was a young man. Didn't stay for more than a day though. She was evil toward him, as always. Little wonder he left as he did…"

As she spoke, Christine studied the painting. The setting appeared to be the main parlor, the man seated in the tall wingback chair lean and handsome with a kind look about his pale grey eyes, their color and his demeanor a mirror to his mother. The black-haired woman standing next to him, with her hand on his shoulder, wore an elaborate emerald dress and was of astonishing beauty, but with a hard indifference that glazed her sea-green eyes.

"That was painted in the months after they married. Shortly after its completion, she discovered she was with child. It was in fetching the doctor for her, not trusting anyone else with the task, that Master Edwin found an icy patch of road. His horse fell atop him – crushed his legs it did, poor soul. Though it was the bitter cold that likely took his life."

Christine pondered the horrifically tragic words.

"Madame Fairfax…" She hesitated, wondering if she should speak, then rushed forth in her desire to know. "Why does the Maestro wear a mask? Was he, too, injured?"

The housekeeper pressed her lips together a moment, and Christine thought she might not speak.

"He was born…afflicted. The day after his father met his maker. I saw the Maestro as a newborn babe, such a tragic sight, that face – and only the once did I see it. Not long after that, his mother covered it with a mask. He was never allowed to remove it, poor lad. Since he's become master of Thornfield, the masks now and then change in appearance, but he never goes without. That one time only have I seen his face in its true form." She turned grave eyes to Christine. "You would be wise never to mention it or the mask while in his presence."

Adrienne had said much the same thing, and Christine nodded in assent, feeling a twinge of empathetic pity for the tortured boy he'd been. Abused and abandoned, much as she suffered as a girl – first at the hand of her merciless aunt and her spawn, later at the prison-like institution of Lindenwood. Punished for her voice, a natural part of her being, just as he once suffered for his face, a natural part of his. Perhaps he still suffered, if he felt he must never be seen without a mask. Yet no matter how horrid his affliction, Christine did not believe it would change her perception of him. She had learned long ago that true beauty resided within, not without…

And on that mode of conduct by which to judge, she was as yet uncertain where her new master stood.

She looked at the spot to the right of the painting, bare as the rest of the wall that followed.

"If the Maestro ever should marry, their painting will hang there," Madame Fairfax said, as if discerning Christine's thoughts. "Though it is doubtful."

"Doubtful he will marry?" Christine looked at her curiously. "Why do you say that?"

"Oh, make no mistake – there's plenty a woman wouldn't mind taking their place upon this wall – the Maestro is a very wealthy man. There are those who would marry him for greed alone, to become the next mistress of Thornfield. But he's also a very bitter man, and to hear him talk, he doesn't think highly on the institution of marriage…"

Nor did Christine ever entertain plans to marry, content to live with what independence a young woman in service could obtain; nonetheless, she thought the revelation quite sad.

She was pleasantly surprised that Madame Fairfax had proven to be a trove of useful information. After her failure to learn more of the immediate family history at luncheon, Christine never suspected she would learn so much with these ancestral portraits.

"Well, I must be about my business. There's much work yet to be done," the housekeeper nodded to Christine in parting and hurried off the way she'd come.

x

Christine turned her interest in the opposite direction, deciding to extend her tour of the manor. After a short distance, the corridor came to a dead end, a door on either side. She opened the one to her right and found herself in a small anteroom with a staircase against the opposite wall going to the upper level of what must be the third floor.

Before she could step forward and simply peer up the stairs, a heavyset woman, more brawn then flesh, lumbered down them in servant's attire. She turned at the foot, surprised to see Christine standing on the threshold.

"See here – what are you about?" the stranger asked, her voice a coarse rasp, her hair stringy and graying beneath the frilled cap she wore. Her face was florid and in her hand she held a small silver flask. Her uniform had seen better days; indeed, one sleeve was torn and the white smock quite dirty.

"I'm Christine Daaé – the new governess."

The woman sniffed in clear disinterest. "No one is allowed up there, 'ceptin' myself. _No one_. Go on with you then! Scat!"

Like a chastised child, Christine backed away before the woman could forcefully eject her – she certainly had the build for such a feat – and stood watching as the door closed directly in her face.

Well. That was quite bizarre, not to mention unjustifiably rude. She had only wished to learn the layout of the place, not wander into rooms she understood were forbidden.

Shaking her head, Christine tried the door opposite. This one revealed another inner corridor that stretched into the distance. She took the dimly lit passage, following its twists and turns, at times taking a series of double steps upward or downward. With surprise she noticed a second corridor that branched off and recognized it as leading to her bedchamber. She continued along the unknown corridor, soon coming abreast of a room with an open door.

This chamber contained an ambience of dark luxury, the furniture nearly black, the wood was such a deep brown, the hangings of the massive four-poster bed a rich crimson edged in gold with matching draperies at the window. Threads of the same hues ran through the exotic rug near the fireplace. She wondered if every chamber within this massive edifice held its own hearth, and thought how grateful the children of Lindenwood would be to have just one.

Such flagrant wealth bedazzled her mind but more shocking than that was the realization of exactly whose bedchamber she had found her way into. Even if a maid wasn't now busy at work smoothing the bed sheet, her back to Christine, the black velvet robe that lay draped over an upholstered bench near the low-burning fire would have suggested the identity of the owner – but the diverse masks that stood on three stands atop a dresser entirely gave that truth away.

Nervously she retreated before she could be spotted like an intrusive interloper – the north wing forbidden – and hastened back to the corridor leading to her bedchamber. Once inside, she closed the door and pressed her back to the wood in relief that her unintentional misconduct had not been discovered.

Both areas forbidden to her she had stumbled across, and unfortunately, with both, her curiosity had been stirred and not sated. Would she ever revisit either chamber? Heavens no! It was her wretched curiosity paired with her impassioned nature that was her true crutch to being upright and good, and she would not again allow herself to be tempted.

x

A servant knocked on the door a short time before the evening meal.

"The Maestro says you're to meet with him in the main parlor after supper," the maid announced. "And you're to bring your book of sketches with you."

With a short bob of her head, the girl left, Christine too stunned to form a reply. In her short time at Thornfield, she learned that the maids were considered beneath the position of governess or housekeeper, not that she thought them inferior, but they treated her with a deferential distance. However the odd caste system of the servants was far from her mind at the moment.

Why would the Maestro wish to see her sketches – and how ever did he find out about them?

Adrienne. The child must have seen the sketch Christine left out last night, though that presented the next question - when had the girl again entered her room?

Curiosity, it seemed, was not a deplorable trait belonging only to Christine.

Somberly, she moved to the dresser and took the paper where it sat propped, staring at its dark lines and contours before slipping it into her flat satchel and binding the ribbons closed.

At Lindenwood, she'd had no privacy; none whatsoever. Why did she, naught but a poor sparrow, think she might be granted such a luxury while working under a different master?

She deliberated about rebuffing his order and leaving her sketches safe and unseen within her chamber, perhaps hiding them away, then wondered why she made such a fuss in her mind with the idea of presenting them.

And yet…

Her eyes turned up to the framed painting on the wall, so dark, so _familiar,_ before she decisively left the room to descend the stairs, her satchel held beneath one arm.

xXx


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews! :) I'm so glad you liked my little twist of Erik being Rochester's grandson! :D – I had to shuffle the years a bit to do it, (setting Jane Eyre backstory back a smidgen) but it really worked well for the plot I wanted to present. I do want to clarify though – for my story, Erik's grandfather (Edward) did have a son and a daughter and of course Adele, his ward who became to him like a daughter. Just as little Adrienne is now Erik's ward, Erik's father (Edwin) had only one child - Erik - and yes, Jane Eyre next generation would be an apt title. lol...As to my little intro hook of "One song crushed her spirit"- in a large sense, that has already happened, by the way Christine was harshly criticized and punished by those in charge at Lindenwood (for her beautiful voice and in singing about her Angel of Music)** ** **, so much so, she now hides her ability from others**** **(same song Erik heard in the prologue that saved him). And now…**

* * *

 **VI**

What little supper she had consumed seemed to congeal in her stomach as Christine approached the main parlor. Would she find the roaring lion or a more approachable cub? He certainly could never fit the adage of a lamb, though to think of him as a gentle, playful cub seemed highly absurd as well.

Clutching more tightly to her satchel, she took a deep breath for composure and stepped across the threshold but went no further, uncertain if she was to await his permission to invade his solitude.

The master of Thornfield sat in his leisure before the glowing hearth in the same wingback chair of maroon leather his father had occupied in the portrait. With one long leg stretched out, his gleaming boot resting on a padded footstool, he had his other foot planted on the floor. A snifter of brandy he swished with one hand, his focus on the fire. The golden tabby that Christine first noticed in Madame Fairfax's parlor reclined near the hearth, lifting its head from its paws to stare at her with baleful eyes…much the color of its owner.

The Maestro turned his head and regarded her with a manner of nonchalant indolence. Dressed to the nines as always, he was the picture of careless elegance in a waistcoat of dark gold brocade and a black frock coat. He lifted his foot off the cushion, slightly shoving the stool away with the sole of his boot, his every move fluidly cavalier as he straightened. He could easily be the subject of one of Hugo's poems about a chevalier or even a prince.

"You sent for me, monsieur?"

"Why do you linger by the door like a meek little mouse? Come inside, or do you always have to be told? Take a seat." The princely lion motioned to a chair that sat near his. "No - there."

"Monsieur?" She looked nervously toward the chair little more than an arm's length from his, then longingly to the sofa she had targeted several feet away from him.

"Come then, don't dawdle." He repeated the order he'd given Adrienne the first day Christine met him in this chamber. "I wish to speak with you at length and have no desire to shout across the room."

The sofa was nowhere near yelling distance, his words extreme, but Christine walked toward the hardwood chair, moving her arm along its high scrolled back with the intention of scooting it further away.

"Leave it where it stands. No," he immediately changed his mind. "Pull it closer."

She stood immobile and stared at him in wary shock.

He gave another swirl of the brandy in his glass. "You said you do not fear me. Was that a lie?" His tone came sardonic, almost smug, as if he had uncovered what he believed to be true all along.

Determined to prove his allegation wrong, she clenched her teeth and did as ordered. Once seated, she never took her eyes from the fire.

"I see you brought the sketches that Adrienne mentioned. Good." He stretched out his arm toward her. "Give them to me…Come." He flicked his fingers with a wave of impatience when she made no move to obey.

At his curt directive, again she stared, holding her satchel a little closer against her, as she might a child in danger of being snatched away by brutal hands.

He released his breath in an elongated sigh.

"You must understand, mademoiselle, I am not a man accustomed to the social niceties of civility. I tell a servant to do this or that, and it is done, as it has been done for a decade past. I never make a request of those who run my household, and you cannot expect me to change for one little sparrow of a governess."

First he called her a mouse, now a sparrow, either term hardly flattering. She had thought him both lion and cub - at least the first impression _was_ suitable to his demeanor.

"When the matter pertains to simple art – which has no bearing on the job I was hired for and I indulge in as a hobby in my spare time – I cannot understand your line of reasoning."

The words were out before she had a chance to think them through. His eyes narrowed in surprise that she would contradict his wishes.

"You don't believe I have the right to question the activities or character of a governess who spends the greater part of each day in the company of my young, impressionable ward?"

"No, I understand that." She kept her voice calm and well-modulated, though his mood had gone a shade darker, and realized that perhaps she was being too outspoken. "My references are beyond reproach, monsieur, as is my character and moral standing. I sent Madame Fairfax all of what was required to secure this post, and she seemed well pleased by what she read."

"To the devil with what was written – anyone can pen whatever they wish, whether it be truth or lies, fact or fiction. Nor am I certain I would deem in high regard the words of a charitable institution, when those sequestered there leave its doors looking as if they exist on a plane between life and death. Tell me, Miss Daaé, do you ever eat?" His eyes made a quick sweep of her form.

A flush of warmth flooded her cheeks. "I am uncertain how my eating habits relate to the question of my good moral character?"

"It is by _your presence_ that I shall ascertain all I need to know about you – now come. We have evaded the issue, and I am weary of dilly-dallying about. Hand over the sketches…" At her continued hesitation, he added, "If you please."

His mocking tone was hardly gracious, but neither did it seem truly unkind, and before she was quite aware, she handed over her precious drawings. He placed the satchel on his lap, his eyes never leaving her face.

"You look troubled. Despite your earnest pledge of owning a demure nature and excellence in virtue, will I find a tableau of lifelike sketches that would put the Kama Sutra to shame?"

"The… _what_?" She wrinkled her brow in confusion.

He chuckled. "Never mind. Perhaps the sparrow does indeed have the guile of a dove and not the falcon. I see a question ready to burn your lips. Speak then!"

She clasped her hands more tightly in her lap at his abrasive attitude.

"It is only that..." She took a breath and barged full steam ahead. "I am at a loss as to why you believe civility some dark thing to be shunned. Those who rarely receive any form of kindness or consideration treasure them as a gift. It causes no one pain and the experience can be pleasant for all involved."

He lifted his brows in surprise, evident by the manner in which his mask shifted. "And will you now instruct me, Miss Daaé? Am I to be your pupil?"

"Forgive me." She lowered her eyes. "I spoke out of turn."

"Confound it – cease with the apologies, woman! I directed you to state your mind, and so you have." His burst of ire disappeared as quickly as it arose. "Unfortunately the tonic of cordiality isn't always the cure, and given of itself can be shunned."

She did not ask how he came by such knowledge or if it was a lesson of personal experience, the present discussion ceasing to capture interest as her gaze snapped to his long slender fingers which deftly began untying the knotted ribbon of her satchel. She swallowed hard, curbing the mad impulse to snatch back her folio of what he would surely deem inferior art and flee from his formidable presence.

No. She wasn't the scared little mouse he thought of her, and though his bite could be fierce, he had never once done her harm, as others with authority had done when she dared to speak her mind. As a student at Lindenwood, she'd had her cheeks slapped often, as well as her palms and nape hit with twigs that stung. Once she became teacher there, the corporal beatings stopped, though the oral scoldings never diminished.

Christine forced herself to remain still with rigid poise and waited for her present master to speak…

He pulled back the flap and picked up the first sketch, studying it an insufferable length of time, then laid it aside to pick up another. He did this with each of her seven sketches, his manner quiet and contemplative. She tried not to fidget, her heart racing with each unbearably mute second and pounding out each slow, silent minute that elapsed, with nothing but the quiet riffle of shifting paper to chafe her ears.

At long last he lifted his eyes from the final sketch which he had perused a greater amount of time than the others. His eyes held a gleam of surprised and confused…interest?

"When did you sketch these?"

She released the breath she'd been holding.

"At Lindenwood, sir."

"And did you create these yourself, with no coaching or aid with instructions given on what to illustrate?"

"They were all of them composed from _my_ mind and by _my_ hand." She tried not to let his doubts sting, but the offended tone came through regardless.

He studied her as if she were a specimen of fascination under a magnifying glass.

"I have injured your pride. That was not my intent."

His eyes held hers a moment longer, as if trying to puzzle her out, then dropped back to the paper he held. "One would not expect a young and vibrant woman to compose such dark works."

Young and vibrant? She mulled the words over in surprise. "You said I was naught but a sparrow and before that you called me a mouse." She bit the tip of the tongue that betrayed her, by allowing her slighted thoughts to slip from loose lips.

"Do I detect a trace of vanity as well?" He seemed dryly amused. "But then, is that not the way with all women, no matter their station in life?"

She winced at the irksome flaw of a word that seemed as if it would forever haunt her, as had the failing of pride.

"I do have feelings, monsieur," she said, trying to inject a demure tone and failing miserably.

"In your manner of drab brown dress and with your hair hidden away in a bun, a sparrow is how you present yourself, mademoiselle, but I am persuaded that is only a disguise to conceal...What manner of form is hidden, I am yet uncertain…"

She felt the burn of embarrassment singe her skin, and was certain he might soon compare her to a cardinal.

"These are the clothes expected of a governess, monsieur. The station to which you hired me."

"Ah, yes. I do pay you, don't I...what are your wages exactly?"

"You haven't yet paid me, monsieur, but it is a thousand francs per annum."

His brows rose, the mask shifting upward.

"Is that the standard for a governess?"

Whether he thought it too much or too little, she could not establish.

"I wouldn't know, monsieur. This is my first post in that capacity."

"Hmm…" He returned his attention to her meager attempt at art. "These drawings, while somewhat adequate in technique, lack in the tools chosen. Yet they do show vivid imagination…"

She released a soft breath at the backhanded compliment. Still, she preferred honesty to fabrications, and knew herself that she was no van Gogh.

"Your choice of theme reveals yet another revelation beyond the prim exterior you portray. A look into your soul…"

Another?

"This, for example…" He picked up one of her first.

She craned her head toward him, but unable to see well, she rose to stand.

"Yes, pull your chair closer."

That had not been her intent, only to step back a bit to get a wider scope, but she did as instructed and sank back down onto the hard wood. Scant inches now separated them; never had they been so close, save for the night he crouched in front of her to look into her eyes. And just as then, she felt a peculiar, lightheaded warmth.

With one slender finger, he pointed to her sketch. His hands were well-shaped, his nails clean and manicured, though a small ink stain where he'd obviously held a pen smeared the top knuckles of two fingers. She stared at them, noting their length, rather than her sketch.

"A field of headstones before a ramshackle building with a child in the foreground who stares at a leaden sky…" he articulated what the paper held. "All in darkness, save for this faint ray of sunlight against a fragile flower struggling through the snow." He turned his head to look at her as if seeking a reason for the existence of such a drawing.

"At Lindenwood one winter, the Typhus struck down many girls there. A great number of them died. With no one to care, no families, no loved ones, their bodies were quickly and quietly disposed of on the grounds each morning."

He tilted his head in curiosity. "But you cared?"

She was surprised he would ask such a question. "They weren't blood kin, but they _were_ family. Besides my Papa, the only family I truly had." She had received word of her aunt's death years ago, and never thought of her cousins as kin. "I drew that picture as a testament to those girls, as a hope for better things to come. In heaven," she added.

He snorted softly and she frowned.

"'The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch which hurts and is desired…'" He moved onto the next sketch.

Apparently not only Adrienne was fond of quoting Shakespeare. Yet contrary to the Maestro's dismissive words, she highly doubted any of those girls desired to die so young.

"All of these depict a heart heavy and bleak with despair," he went on, "but in that wretched sea of desolation, you have shown a glimmer of hope."

He pulled forward a sketch of two paths that branched from one road and led into the darkness of a forest. The faintest outline of a face could be seen in the trees to the right, a lit lantern sitting on the ground at the fork of the road. On the left, amid the branches, the faint outline suggested a skull.

The artistry could not be compared; hers was shoddy and unexceptional, but the similarity of theme was uncanny.

She glanced from the drawing to his masked face, drumming up the nerve to speak.

"In the bedchamber I've been given, there hangs a framed painting of parallel design. A ghostly face in torment, barely seen within the waves of a storm-tossed ocean, the surroundings likewise dismal. Is it yours?"

His lips twitched without humor. It was a moment before he shortly nodded.

"It seems we are two mates of the soul, you and I, divining the world in all its cruel glory. Whereas you find a flicker of hope as a recurring subject in your works, I see only the darkness."

His reference to any familiarity between them, even if given only as an offhand remark, produced the oddest of tingles inside, making her feel somewhat breathless. Though his dour viewpoint brought sorrow. She knew a portion of his story now, his childhood brimming with pain, so could understand his reasoning. In that too, they shared a bond.

Perhaps it was strange, after the lifetime of suffering and deprivation she'd known that she could even cling to a morsel of hope – but there had been a few, like Madame Talbot and Papa, of course, who had given Christine the inspiration to do so.

"Have you never used color?" he suddenly asked. "Oils? Paints thinned with water?"

"They weren't available at the Institution."

Not that she wouldn't have liked to make the attempt. Such supplies were too costly for a penniless orphan to acquire, even one paid the meager wages of a teacher, and never would the staff at Lindenwood have allowed the use of an egg, so rare to come by, to make her own paints. She once overheard two men talk in a shop that sold such luxuries, of how making a paste of color was accomplished, but never was able to follow through to investigate on her own. Perhaps the cook here at Thornfield might be more agreeable, though she had no idea where to come by the colored powders that were needed, now that she would soon have the funds. That is, whenever he deemed it suitable to begin paying her. Strange, she had never asked Madame Fairfax...

"A pity. Such illustrations would have been better depicted through the shading of color, even charcoal, and not the monotony of a pen."

His offhand words brought her again to stare at his hands. Clearly the use of ink and quill was not his chosen medium in art, and she assumed his fingers must have been stained through written correspondence. As meticulous as he kept his appearance, she was somewhat surprised that he overlooked cleaning the ink from his hands. However, the oversight did not make him appear slovenly. Instead it made him more...human. Approachable.

The Maestro collected the drawings into a pile and carefully tucked them back into the satchel, tying the ribbons before handing her works back to her.

"Then you approve?" she asked quietly. "My private entertainment meets the moral compass required to continue as a governess to Adrienne?"

"It is, as you say, your personal interest…"

She nodded, though he did not question.

"I see no reason to put an end to it. On the contrary, I encourage you to continue your pursuits."

Her heart skipped a beat when he actually smiled. It was only a light tilt of his lips, but there was no mockery, and it made her heart jolt with something akin to pain.

The smile faded as his gem-like eyes grew more intent, dropping to her mouth. She inhaled softly, and he abruptly straightened, shifting away from her.

"You may go, mademoiselle." His words were quiet, and he turned to stare into the fire. "I have no further need of you this evening."

"Of course." Flustered, she also leaned back then stood. "Goodnight, Maestro."

He nodded shortly without looking at her.

xXx

Christine sat before the hearth and studied the drawings that earlier the Master of Thornfield critiqued, surprised how much his opinion mattered. Perhaps because he was also an artist, superb in his craft where she was still learning. Perhaps because he had been the first person to whom she revealed this part of herself, having kept her work securely hidden beneath her mattress at Lindenwood and only penning the sketches during her free time, when she was sure of her solitude. She had been too apprehensive that should she speak of their existence to anyone, the higher staff would have learned and absconded with her art, citing her work as evil, just as they had done with her song.

That part of her she kept hidden in privacy as well.

But the Maestro had _approved._ He had been honest in his assessment of her illustrations and even encouraged her to continue.

A small, thankful smile tilted her lips as she tucked her drawings safely into her satchel.

The sudden sound of light running footfalls came from outside her door. The steps on the stone were soft, as if padded - slippered feet or soles that were bare.

The hour was late, much too late for Adrienne to be skulking about. Christine tied the sash of her wrapper around her nightdress and hurried to the door. At a sudden short burst of laughter, shivers shook her spine, and a sudden rush of apprehension made her pause.

Reminded of the mysterious noises she'd heard shortly after she came to Thornfield – wood creaking behind her, but turning to find no one there – she told herself, as she did then, that this was nothing to cause anxiety. Timbers of old buildings creaked; it was natural. As for the odd laughter, Adrienne was a curious little imp who likely played some mischievous prank on her new governess.

Christine turned the handle and hurried into the dimly lit corridor and to Adrienne's bedchamber, opening the door a crack to peep inside. Her heart seemed to stop to see the child sleeping soundly within her bed.

Not Adrienne then…

Again she heard the sound of light running footsteps, distant this time.

Christine quietly shut Adrienne's door, uncertain what to do next. She returned to her room for a candle. Perhaps it was folly to investigate, but she wouldn't get a wink of sleep unless she made the attempt. Slipping her finger through the brass ring and holding the candlestick out before her, she walked to the next corridor and peered around the corner.

This corridor was unlit, the candles having been extinguished, and she felt grateful for the flame of hers, even if it was too small to illuminate more than the subsequent step. Her heart pounded fast as slowly she moved forward, the shadows looming on either wall before her.

" _No, no, no…someone help me!"_

Distant cries shattered the silence and caused Christine to halt in her tracks a frightful moment, then hurry forward, to answer the cry for help.

A face suddenly came into her line of vision and she nearly dropped the candle.

"Mademoiselle," the housekeeper said, her voice contained, "Is everything alright?"

"I heard a noise – someone screamed for help. Did you not hear?"

The woman nodded. "No need to be alarmed. One of the servants had a bit of an accident. Nothing life-threatening. She's being tended to..."

As she spoke, Madame Fairfax slipped an arm about Christine's shoulders and redirected her path, the pace she set hurried, back toward Christine's bedchamber.

"I hope everything is alright," Christine worried aloud. " I heard someone running – did she fall?"

"A bit tipsy is all – she'll be dealt with. Nothing for you to concern yourself with, my dear."

The mention of the tipsy servant reminded Christine of the woman with the flask.

"I wish to speak with you about a matter I'd earlier forgotten…" Christine hurried to say as Madame Fairfax clearly meant to escort her to the door of her room, now within sight. "I thought I'd met all the servants during the week I've been here, but today as I was walking through the manor, I ran across a rather disagreeable woman I've never seen."

"Oh?" Madame Fairfax's affable countenance grew a mite stern. "And who was that?"

"I don't know actually. I met her when I opened the door at the far end of the portrait gallery."

"The antechamber leading to the third floor?"

Christine felt a rush of guilt. "Yes, well, I didn't know that at the time."

"Hazel Bleue prefers to work there, at her tasks. She is both laundress and seamstress but doesn't get along well with the other servants, so spends her time in solitude. To keep the peace, I allow it. She sews a fine stitch and is remarkable at her work."

"But if the third floor is in such disrepair…?" Christine said in confusion.

"She's familiar with the layout and knows what areas to avoid. It's best to steer clear of her; she's an odd one that Hazel Bleue. As you've no doubt witnessed, she's not one bit sociable. The master is satisfied with her work, and that's what matters. Well now, here we are. I'll leave you to get a good night's sleep, my dear. You must be exhausted after your day."

Before Christine had a chance to respond – and wonder why Madame Fairfax thought this day different than any other – the woman hastened back the way she'd come.

Christine shook her head and let herself back into her room, feeling certain that the housekeeper was hiding something about the eccentric Hazel Bleue. What that entailed, Christine could not imagine...though she was determined to find out.

xXx

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you again for the reviews! :) We're beginning to get into the thick of things…(heh heh heh)**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Thank you so much for the wonderful reviews! :) I'm so glad you guys are enjoying this...And now...**

* * *

 **VII**

.

The days passed without incident. The few attempts to question the servants were met without success. Either no one truly knew much about the peculiar Hazel Bleue, or they were unwilling to share with Christine any knowledge of the eccentric laundress. Given what Madame Fairfax told her, of Hazel Bleue's preference to make the third floor her exclusive habitat for her tasks, Christine deduced that the former reason applied.

Adrienne proved to be an adept and interested pupil in those subjects she highly favored, and mildly cooperative in those subjects she did not, depending on her mood.

As for the Maestro, the past four days he had not made an appearance. At Christine's furtive query on the third afternoon when curiosity got the better of her, Madame Fairfax told her he was elsewhere on the estate, tending to business. She supposed she should feel relieved that he remained distant and unapproachable, but oddly enough she felt…troubled.

Why, she did not wish to reason, and she kept her mind and hands busy hoping to drown out such unwanted feeling.

Adrienne slowly pushed three wooden beads to the opposite side of the wire in listless boredom, then looked up for Christine's approval.

Christine gently shook her head. "Remember, Adrienne, the gold bead represents groups of ten, the brown bead groups of five…"

In a fit of explosive anger, her pupil slapped all the beads of the abacus to one side, causing the tall contraption to topple over onto the table with a raucous clatter of beads.

"I won't do it - I won't! I won't! I won't!" The girl stomped her little foot and crossed her arms with a dark scowl.

"Adrienne!"

Chagrined by her governess's horrified bewilderment, Adrienne looked up and through her lashes at Christine. Of the three governesses she'd had, Christine was at least likeable, and though at first she wished her gone, Adrienne no longer wanted her to leave Thornfield. Which she might do, if she didn't like it here.

"I'm sorry, Mademoiselle. But the numbers get all mixed up in my head."

"That is no excuse to throw a tantrum and take out your distress on inanimate objects…"

Had any of the children at Lindenwood behaved in such a disorderly fashion, they would have spent half the day standing on a chair, with their nape stinging from the blows of the punishing reeds.

The day had been long, arithmetic Adrienne's least favorite subject, and Christine struggled to maintain a cool composure.

"I have told you, each row of beads is greater than the row below it. If you can remember that, it will help."

Adrienne pursed her lips in weary disgust but nodded, setting the abacus upright. After a short time, however, it was easy to see that the child's attention again wandered, her peevish sighs making that plain. Christine stared at the small blackboard set up on an easel, watching as Adrienne chalked the sums for her lessons, four of the ten problems remaining. A thin ray of white sunlight illuminated the slate, and Christine turned her head to look out the window at the clear, bright day.

Every teacher she'd known, save for one, vehemently refused the incentive of a reward to encourage studious behavior. And that sole individual had been the only teacher to matter or make a difference in Christine's wretched young life.

"Adrienne, if you promise to conduct yourself in a more obedient and orderly fashion and finish your sums without further complaint, we will have that picnic."

The girl's dark eyes went wide. "Truly?" Immediately her expression lost some of its enthusiastic sparkle. "You said that last week…"

Christine couldn't blame the child for doubting. A promise was not made to be broken, and Christine did not give them lightly. However nature had intervened to hinder their outing.

"We could not very well have a picnic in the pouring rain, could we? Yet today is full of sunshine."

"Today!" Adrienne squealed and clapped her hands once in glee. "Oh, yes please. I will be very good and studious and do all these awful numbers - and then I will take you to a special place for our picnic, a place no one ever visits."

Her words sent a ripple of disquiet through Christine. "We must stay on the estate, Adrienne."

"Oh – but we will! It's here, at Thornfield."

Humming a little, Adrienne again faced the abacus of wooden beads and studiously set to work at her lesson.

Christine watched in silence, unable to shake the unease that had shattered her fragile calm with the girl's blithe words.

X

One drastically improved lesson later, Christine walked with Adrienne along a wildly overgrown path. What little she had seen of the estate needed some type of renovation, and Christine now understood Madame Fairfax's enthusiasm over the master's return to manage affairs too long neglected. This area behind the manor appeared as if it hadn't been tended with spade, nor hoe, nor blade in more than a decade. She was certain that except for Adrienne this place hadn't seen a mortal walk through its creeping dark greenery for twice that long. Come to think of it, she had never seen a gardener on the grounds in the fortnight since she arrived to Thornfield. Did the Maestro not employ one?

Christine barely caught the low-hanging limb Adrienne had parted before the leafy branch could snap back and hit her in the face. "Are you certain this area of the grounds isn't off limits?" she asked the exuberant child who blazed a path before her while Christine trudged behind, toting the basket with their lunch.

"I told Madame Fairfax I found it, and she told me why it's there."

 _Why it's there?_

"You're not making sense, Adrienne. Whatever are you talking about?"

"You'll see, mademoiselle. We're almost there."

Once they finally arrived "there," Christine gasped in wonderment at her surroundings, which had surely been inspired as an illustration for a page from a mystical fairy tale. Her fingers tingled to put scenery to paper, to _paint,_ her recent conversation with the Maestro prodding that long-buried desire…

Stone steps that had smoothed with age led downward – at least a dozen – the earth within the clearing layered to perform natural seating in an arc for what appeared to be an open stage – circular and twice as large as a carousel, with slender stone pillars all around that supported a domed roof. Christine carefully followed Adrienne in descent. The stairs were old, crumbling at the edges, but appeared solid enough to hold their weight.

Vines of ivy curled around each column of the stage and draped in graceful curtains over the top of the roof while soft moss covered patches of gray rock over the entire structure. The outdoor theater had been crafted with a loving hand, each stone carved with meticulous artistry, a lattice of delicate trim hanging below the top edge, Corinthian pillars carved with exquisite roses and greenery, even the base crafted in swirls of intricate design. Years of neglect gave the secret cove a mystical atmosphere. Christine half expected a faerie to flit into view or a wood nymph to peek from between the wild bushes or thick trees that enclosed the area.

There existed a reverent stillness about the place, not unlike the prayerful awe expressed when entering a grand cathedral.

"You are certain you are allowed to come here?" Christine asked, little above a whisper.

"Mm-hmm."

No matter the girl's assurances, she would check with Madame Fairfax to be sure.

"The first Mr. Rochester had this place built for his ward. She was like a daughter to him and his wife. Madame Fairfax told me," Adrienne explained in a wistful undertone. "Adele – that was her name – liked to dance ballet while others watched, and in the summer, they would hold small concerts here and invite friends. She went to a school that taught dance and her friends would come home with her on holiday to visit and perform."

Christine pondered that nugget of history, her dear friend Meggie coming to mind. She had wanted to dance on stage too, just as Christine wanted to sing. Girlhood fantasies, perhaps, but Christine hoped that every one of Meggie's childhood ambitions were realized.

"This is such a lovely place to which you have brought me," Christine smiled. "I am delighted to see it. But Adrienne, we can hardly picnic here."

The child looked around the picturesque nook in confusion. "Why not?"

Christine glanced at Adrienne's still somehow spotless white pinafore and blue frock, not wishing to raise the ire of the girl's nurse – or worse, that of the laundress/seamstress Hazel Bleue. Based on first impressions, she had no wish for another encounter with the crotchety woman.

"The ground is wet from two days rain, and I brought no blanket to sit upon." Even with a blanket, the dampness was sure to soak through the wool and into their dresses.

"We could sit under there." Adrienne pointed to the covered stage, which Christine noted was also wet in spots, the cracked stone covered here and there in moss.

"Perhaps we will visit another day for luncheon, when the ground isn't so wet. For now, I think we should take our meal in the garden where there is a table and benches to sit."

"Oh, alright, though that's not a true picnic," the child said begrudgingly. "We _can_ come here again?"

Christine would not be wheedled into a promise until she learned for certain that this magical place wasn't forbidden…like the third floor.

"That will depend," Christine said vaguely. "Let us take each day as it presents itself. Now, come…" She held out her hand, urging Adrienne to follow. "Let us have that picnic."

"Not a true picnic unless we sit on the ground," Adrienne stated a second time.

"Then let us call it a repast outdoors."

Christine knew little of picnics or what they entailed, save for those outings she'd read about in literature.

They wended their way back through the jungle of foliage and to the manor and the terrace behind. Christine laid the picnic out on the stone table there and took one of the two benches on either side while Adrienne took the one opposite. A low wall of pale stone enclosed the terrace, myriad bushes laid out in scenic panorama, also in neglect, but nowhere near as chaotic as the path they had just left.

Adrienne's disappointment not to take luncheon at the woodland fairy stage disappeared with the discovery of the éclairs the cook had included inside the basket. They tucked into lunch, a delightful medley of small round rolls with a salad filling, thin slices of ham, sharp cheese, hard boiled eggs, and baguettes. Inside was also a flask containing coffee. One thing could be said in favor of Thornfield - never had Christine enjoyed so much food and food that was so appetizing!

They ate, Adrienne filling in the silence between bites with her enthusiastic critiques of her favorite plays. Twice Christine had to gently reprimand the child not to speak with her mouth full. As Adrienne polished off their afternoon repast with one of the éclairs, Christine plucked up the book of Hugo's poetry she'd brought along, deciding to read aloud and blend their amusement into a short lesson.

"Will you read to me?" The girl sounded genuinely pleased.

Christine smiled. "Yes, that is my intention. I thought I'd pick up where I left off…let's see…"

She pulled back the cover. The book opened to a page midway through, as it always did, a page more worn than the rest, as if it had been read often. She darted a glance to her pupil, who licked the chocolate filling from her fingers, then cleared her throat.

"' _I know not if the rock, or tree o'erhead,_

 _Had heard their speech;—but when the two spoke low,_

 _Among the trees, a shudder seemed to go_

 _Through all their branches, just as if that way_

 _A beast had passed to trouble and dismay._

 _More dark the shadow of the rock was seen,_

 _And then a morsel of the shade, between_

 _The sombre trees, took shape as it would seem_

 _Like a spectre walking in the sunset's gleam…_ '"

Christine took in a breath and turned the page, preparing to continue, when a masculine voice came from beneath the terrace, advancing closer.

"' _It is not a monster rising from its lair,_

 _Nor phantom of the foliage and the air…_ '"

The bearer of the smooth, deep voice broke through the cover of nearby trees.

" _'It is not morsel of the granite's shade_

 _That walks in deepest hollows of the glade._

 _'Tis not a vampire nor a spectre pale_

 _But living man in rugged coat of mail._

 _It is Alsatia's noble Chevalier,_

 _Eviradnus the brave, that now is here…_ '"

The reason for the well-worn page was solved – clearly a favorite poem of the Master.

His last words came sardonic, as if in jest that he should be compared to one deemed noble. The shock of his abrupt appearance dissolving, Christine would not be cowed.

"And so, monsieur, are you Evirandus, the brave knight?" She lifted a brow in speculation.

If he thought his jarring presence to unsettle her, it didn't show by the placid expression beneath his mask.

"Do you see a vampire or a spectre, mademoiselle? Or perhaps a monster, or a phantom?" He chuckled low at that, as if at some private joke.

The deep, rich sound of his amusement caused Christine to shiver, and she set the book in her lap before he could see the telltale tremble of her hands. How could a laugh, even one so dark and still, seem to contain a life all its own?

"Maestro…?" Adrienne regarded him with a peculiar sort of nervous hope. "Will you sit with us? We're having a picnic, even if it's not on the ground. Mademoiselle Daaé said it's too wet."

"I see." His words came solemn, hardly receptive to the child's invitation.

"You are welcome to join us, if you like." Only after the words left her mouth, did Christine realize he might take offense with one of his hired help giving permission to the Master of Thornfield. She hurried to say more. "There is quite a bit of food left if you care to partake."

She did not imagine the shocked look Adrienne sent her way for the impromptu invitation nor the uneasy silence that ensued.

"I will have to decline," he said at last, his careless mood of earlier having crumbled if the stony set of his jaw was an indication. "I have business to attend."

Now ill at ease, Christine gave a soft nod, her gaze falling to her lap a moment and the book she held before daring to look up again.

The Maestro studied her with those eyes of formidable gold, looking her up and down briefly before mounting the short flight of stairs to the terrace and walking past their table and into the manor.

Clearly she had overstepped her boundaries, and Adrienne, with her furtive glances between Christine and the departing lord of the manor knew the reason. However, she did not feel it prudent to question the child about her guardian.

"Mademoiselle…? Why do you stare so?"

Realizing that she was vacantly staring at the back entrance to Thornfield, or more aptly, at the spot where her dour employer had last been before disappearing into the manor, Christine hurriedly snatched the book up from her lap and resumed reading the poem. _…_

Never mind that she had lost her audience.

Never mind that her own thoughts were far from the noble chevalier.

xXx

Once he had dined in his habitual solitude, Erik stood inside his bedchamber, with one hand clutching the mantel above the hearth. His mind retraced the day to its finest point, and her quiet invitation to join them for luncheon. She had seemed sincere, her large dark eyes kind and welcoming.

How he had wanted to accept and sit near her; but for more than one reason, it was necessary to decline.

He stared into the flames that burned, relentless, through vulnerable wood. The cut branches crackled in feeble protest, made as a sacrifice to be destroyed, to give off warmth to those in demand of such a ritual. Such was its duty…

Duty.

How he had come to despise the word!

Erik closed his eyes and inhaled a deep breath, appreciating the sweet aroma of the cedar chips a servant had tossed inside. He had no business thinking about the new governess, but could not seem to stop, and their recent discussions only exacerbated the problem.

For one decade, no long before that, he'd had few of like mind to converse with. Adrienne, with her childish prattle, soon wore on his last nerve, and while Madame Fairfax was a wealth of information with regard to his family history, she was nonetheless a servant under his charge. Never did she feel fully at ease speaking with him, often fidgeting to be excused from his presence.

Indeed, the majority of his servants found great relief to quickly escape their masked overlord, even when his temper was calm and his voice mild.

Those of his peerage misunderstood him or had no wish to collaborate with him, unless it had to do with his wealth. By the same measure, he was treated by all those at the theater – thus his mischievous diversion over the past three years. Yet even his little forays into Paris had begun to lose their sparkle and appeal. The entrance of Christine Daaé into his household had ignited to life an interest long absent over the long, endless days of preferred solitude.

Not truly a servant nor a member of the family, but the caretaker to his ward – a governess was a strange breed of individual.

When Madame Fairfax explained weeks ago the need to hire a replacement for Adrienne, he had been fully prepared to put distance between Mademoiselle Daaé and himself, as he did with all the staff of Thornfield. Such worthy intentions soon fell by the wayside. Even as early as their initial encounter on the road, he perceived a quality about the young woman that stirred his dormant passion as much as it confused his fractious mind.

Every conversation with her only served to strengthen such emotion, to discover surprising bonds shared that he would have never guessed existed. Though clearly she had no true appreciation for music, his chief interest, which was indeed a pity.

But what they lacked as a bond in the musical aspects, they shared in the medium of art. Not only the subject itself, but their dark and passionate insight into the world was eerily similar, with how they each exhibited perspective, as if they shared one and the same soul.

Clearly she had suffered in life; so had he.

After endless years of silence and living within a self-made solitude, was it any wonder, now that he'd potentially found someone with whom to share a coveted bond of kinship, that he would wish to arrange future meetings? Within the bonds of propriety of course. If only to satisfy his curiosity and determine exactly what else they might have in common, if indeed he was correct in his presumption that they did share more...

Was that so wrong?

Their discussions intrigued him; indeed, he could not recall when or if he had enjoyed a conversation with another person more. Was it truly so wicked to crave the female companionship other men had? He had not asked for this fate – it had been thrust upon him, through deserved guilt, yes, but he had been tricked and deceived….

As he now tricked and deceived those who deserved it.

What he did, what little ghostly deceptions he evoked, was for the betterment of an entire industry. What evils had been done to him and to his household was for the benefit of no individual, but an act of selfishness that stemmed from indolence.

The pads of his fingers dug into the mantel. He wished he could give vent to the old rage rising within, could wrench the wood away from rock and exhaust his angry frustration in a momentary whirlwind of havoc.

The letter he received today only complicated matters, and he had wasted no time in penning a reply. God, that the fool would listen and refrain from his plans...

He squeezed until he felt the slender bones of his fingers might crack, then released the mantel and whirled away from the protesting wood and greedy flames.

He had no right to seek Christine Daaé out, by God and by heaven, he had no right. Perhaps to do so was blasphemy, due to all he lacked and what he'd done.

Yet he could not call himself a man of scruples, despite the one honorable act he performed while under duress.

Never could he claim to be such a man. He was no noble knight and never would be...

Wicked was the foundation of all he was.

xXx

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you again for the reviews! :) We're beginning to get into the thick of things…heh heh heh….**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Thank you so much for the lovely reviews! :) And now...**

* * *

 **VIII**

.

After a grueling lesson in needlepoint – Adrienne incapable of sitting still for more than two minutes at a time, constantly fidgeting and pricking herself with the point of the needle twice as often – Christine knew great relief when the child's nurse came to collect her.

The remainder of that evening and most of the day following were hers to enjoy as she saw fit. There were no lessons given on Sundays, a mirror to Lindenwood. The "half-day" not her own, she was only expected to be within reach, in case Adrienne's nurse needed time away. And while Christine eagerly anticipated nearly an entire day of freedom, there was one matter she had put off far too long.

As a child she had accompanied Papa in the year after her Mother died, the two living like gypsies traipsing from town to town. But wherever they chose to dwell, her Papa always found and took her to the local house of worship on a Sunday morning, as he had promised her mother he would. Fondly, Christine recalled standing beside him, her small hand nestled in his while singing the lovely spiritual hymns.

It had been an enjoyment.

When living with her hypocritical aunt, she had been trundled off in the carriage with her cousins once a week to visit the holy establishment where her aunt worshiped. During those unbearable mornings, her aunt pretended before the congregation to actually care for her charge, only to treat Christine as a despised servant on their return to Greenwich Hall.

It had been a disillusionment.

As a child at Lindenwood, along with her peers she had been forced to trudge the two miles to chapel each Sabbath. In rain, in snow, the weather failed to matter. Once they arrived to their destination, often chilled to the bone, sometimes wet, always weary, she had been made to sit on a hard bench for hours and endure sermons of hellfire and brimstone, accused of being an unworthy sinner. Upon becoming a teacher there, little had changed.

It had been a punishment.

After all she endured, it seemed odd that she would wish to seek a place to worship, and felt it must be an habitual act ingrained in her blood. Of course, her Papa would approve and be pleased that she did not forsake the tradition he'd set, as would Maman. And she knew that not all of her dour experiences could be blamed on those priests who led such meetings, but mainly on her situation, which had greatly influenced her outlook at the time. Perhaps that was why she was yet willing to find a church to attend.

She must ask Madame Fairfax directions at the next opportunity, along with inquiring about the woodland fairy stage. The mystical beauty of the forgotten nook intrigued her. She yearned to put its enchanting lines to paper.

Once she finished stowing away the items Adrienne used for her lessons, Christine walked down the corridor that led to her room. She opened the door and took a step inside, then stopped and stared in astonished curiosity.

Someone had been there…

And they had left evidence of their presence on the coverlet of her bed.

Several items had been piled at the foot, and as she drew closer, her eyes widened even more when she discerned the nature of what they were. Two wooden boxes, a palette, a blank canvas. And an easel stood propped against the bed. She blinked in shock and peered into the narrow box. On a hard padding of crimson velvet, three thin brushes of diverse sizes lay in their impressed slots. In the larger box were glass vials of colored powders – for paints? - along with several collapsible metal tubes.

She looked back and forth between the items, two things clear. The sender of the gift must have been the Maestro, and he must have entered her bedchamber to deliver it.

At Lindenwood, there was no privacy, but never had a man entered the girls' dormitory rooms, save for the physician when the sickness came. Uneasy to realize the Master must have been there, in her bedchamber, Christine did not suppose that it was apprehension that made her heart beat so stilted and fast.

Her fingertips traced the smooth mahogany boxes with their gold hasps, the vials and the brushes, the bristles incredibly soft and fine, before closing the lids firmly on the lure they presented. Though she had no knowledge on matters of wealth, it didn't take a connoisseur of art to realize these tools were expensive.

The first and last gift she received had been a locket from her father, and she felt adrift with what to do now, having no experience in this sort of thing. The staff at her old school would prohibit her receipt of such luxuries, were she still there, and in her rebellion of all things Lindenwood she was almost tempted to accept.

Yet what would that make her? How would he think of her – how _did_ he think of her? If she allowed this, would he presume she was no better than a loose woman who accepted favors from men – in return for what? To be his mistress?

Her face heated at the scandalous notion, and she attempted to ignore the strange warmth that tingled through her veins at the sudden image of being held in his arms.

Is that what he wished to make her into? His kept woman?

She moved away from the bed and the sight of what it held. There was no choice to be made. Certainly she could never receive such a gift from any man, much less her employer.

She paced a moment, wondering what to do, before grabbing up the two boxes and heading out the door and down the stairs.

Once on the main landing, she spotted the parlour maid, Dorothea, a duster in her hand as she swished the brown feathers over an impressive grandfather clock, whose moon-face displayed that it was going on half past four.

Christine approached the busy young woman. "Pardon, I was wondering, could you tell me is the Maestro on the premises?"

"Oui, mademoiselle. He is in the library."

"Merci." Christine walked off and toward that corridor.

"Oh but, Miss –"

Christine acknowledged the girl with a hurried glance over her shoulder.

"He is seeing to estate affairs. You mustn't disturb him."

Christine vaguely smiled and gave a distracted nod before continuing her trek.

She was now a member of this household, if only the governess, and certainly she had a matter of business that must be addressed. Did she not also warrant an audience with the Master?

Nonetheless, once she approached the tall, closed doors, she wavered. From within the chamber, the Maestro's voice vibrated with anger toward his unseen victim.

"You fool!" he seethed. "Why did you not inform me of this sooner?"

The reply came soft, too difficult to hear through the thick panel of wood.

"Excuses – that is all you have to offer me? Imbecile. Get out. And do not show your face to me again until you have rectified this matter!"

Christine stood frozen, hand on the glass knob, when suddenly the door swung inward, away from her grasp. She inhaled a startled breath and took a quick step back, nearly colliding with the surprised stranger - a tall gaunt man in a dark frock coat and tan trousers, a portfolio clutched in his hand. He glanced down his thin nose at her briefly before dismissing her and striding quickly away.

Now was clearly not a good time.

Hoping to dissolve back into the corridor before she was spotted, she slipped her foot behind her, taking a swift step backward and a steadying breath – which shattered when she realized she was too late.

"Miss Daaé!"

She swallowed hard, clutching the boxes close to her chest.

"Monsieur?"

"Must you forever dawdle in the shadows – come forward."

"Perhaps I should return later. This can wait."

"You are here now. Do as I say."

Given no choice, she rolled her small shoulders back in a pretense of confidence and walked into the spacious room, not stopping until she reached the massive carved desk, behind which the master sat in his equally massive carved chair. Why it should remind her of a throne, she didn't know, but it did. The formidable man, sitting so erect and rigid, seemed to dwarf both pieces of furniture.

His eyes burned gold in suspicion. "How long were you standing outside the door?"

With his current dark mood, she did not think it wise to admit what little she'd heard. "I had only just arrived."

He studied her a moment, as if to ferret out her thoughts.

"You wish to speak with me?" His gaze lowered to the boxes she held, then lifted to hers in what seemed a challenge.

"Yes, I…" She drummed up the courage and stepped forward, setting the boxes carefully on his desk. "I thank you for the overture, but I cannot accept these." She hesitated when he scowled. "I wasn't able to carry all of it down. I'll ask one of the servants to collect the rest."

"You deem the tools inferior?"

At his caustic words, she shook her head. "No, it's not that. They are actually far superior to anything I've ever seen. I simply cannot accept your gift. It wouldn't be suitable."

"Suitable?"

"I am a governess; you are my employer."

He huffed what barely passed for a chuckle. "A female who does not require or expect material goods to keep her entertained…" His musing came half to himself, his intent eyes never leaving her face. "Is there truly such a woman existing?"

"There is. This one." She decided to explain. "I am unaccustomed to such things, monsieur. I do not require them to be...entertained."

Such a foreign concept brought memories of her dear Papa playing his violin for her every night after supper before sending her off to bed, the only person to ever care if she experienced a morsel of enjoyment.

"Then you mean to abandon your art?"

His velvet tone dripped with disapproval, and a small part of her not intimidated by his persona appreciated that he was truly in favor of her continuing with her artistic diversions.

"I have the pens I use for my sketches."

He grunted. "Inferior tools to capture the beauty of the landscape, if indeed you should wish to do these grounds justice. Thornfield is ablaze with color, but all too soon winter's harsh and dreary palette will cover the land."

"Nonetheless, that is what I have." There was nothing more to say. "Thank you for your time monsieur."

Before she could fully turn and make her escape to the door, he spoke.

"Am I not responsible for your salary?"

"The salary you have yet to pay me?" The calm words escaped before she could gather them back. She winced a bit in concern when she became aware of her gall, but he only chuckled.

"We never did reach an agreement, did we…" He leaned back in his chair, his manner indolent as he planted his elbows on the high wooden arms and lightly pressed his fingertips together. "The first of each month, I will pay your wages, will that suffice?"

"Yes, of course." She felt petty bringing it up, though she had every right to demand what was owed her.

"Consider the artistic implements a disbursement of that."

She blinked at him in disbelief.

"You mean to pay me in paints?"

A slow grin appeared beneath the mask, and though she now realized he was only jesting with her, she couldn't explain away the sudden strong and swift thudding of her heart to see his inexplicably changed temperament. Indeed, it seemed to race more now than when she was in dread wariness of him.

"No, mademoiselle, I do not. They are not yours to possess."

Not hers? Was the overture not intended as a gift?

"I don't understand."

"Did you not look closely to notice the brushes have been used, the powders for the paints not entirely filling the vials? The canvas is the only item that is new, and it is hardly worth much to make such a bother over."

She drew her brows together in confusion, when suddenly it was made all too clear:

"They're yours."

Behind the mask, his catlike eyes glowed, and he gave an affirmative nod.

"Indeed. So you see, there is no need to refuse. It is but a loan."

"But - I can't take your things. What if…what if I break something?"

"Do you mean to be careless with them? Are you careless by nature, Miss Daaé?"

Oddly, she felt the question went deeper than mere paints, and she recalled how they first met, with her sprawled out in the road before his thundering steed.

"I always aim to be careful, especially with what is entrusted to my care."

"Then I fail to see the problem." He moved his large, slender hands apart in a graceful shrug. "If perchance something should break, it can be easily replaced. Nothing is made to last forever."

Christine searched for what to say. Knowing it wasn't a gift did not alter the situation. That these were his own possessions made the matter even more personal.

"I don't know…"

"I would consider it a favor."

"A _favor?"_

She studied him in wary confusion.

"I no longer have the time to partake in such pleasantries and am doubtful the opportunity will arise in the near future. As you might have discerned, I make my own paints. The pigments come from ground flowers, berries, herbs and the like, which I then mix with linseed oil and transport to the metal tubes for ease of use. Unfortunately, with time, the paints age and in so doing, they thicken and dry out, the color produced inferior to what I desire. I would prefer that the paints be used, as they were intended, rather than tossed into the furnace to become needless ash. Such a waste." He made a tsking sound with his tongue, spreading his fingertips apart only to tap them together again. "So you see, mademoiselle, you would be doing me a courtesy to accept my small offering."

She had no cause to doubt his words, though she suspected that he embellished the negative and her part in doing him a kindness. Still, she knew nothing about paints, so could hardly contradict his claim.

"Well, I suppose I could…"

"Splendid!"

His sudden wide smile scattered what was left of reason, dissolving what the remainder of her response might have been. Her gaze dropped lower, below the mask, and focused on his thinly-stretched lips and bared, even teeth. Never had she seen him smile so unreservedly and without his usual sarcasm, and for a moment she was nonplussed.

As quickly as his smile came, it left.

"Now, if there is nothing else you wish to discuss, I have business to attend."

He pushed away from his throne of a chair and stood, causing her pulse to flutter an anxious beat.

She looked up to meet his eyes, scrambling to find her equilibrium. Had she ever seen a man so tall…? Quietly, she cleared the thickness from her throat, hoping to achieve some measure of balance and refrain from behaving like a simple-minded ninny.

"I will accept the loan of your things, monsieur, for the present, and will return everything to you in the condition which it was received. The price of the canvas you may take out of my wages."

He smirked but inclined his head in a nod.

"As you wish, mademoiselle."

Christine struck out her hand for him to shake to seal the bargain.

He regarded her with narrowed eyes of surprise, those golden-green orbs dropping to stare at her small, pale hand.

Too late, she realized the boldness of such an act, and her stomach plummeted at what he might view as impropriety - and the unnerving thought of his large hand engulfing hers. Still, she did not draw away.

After tense more seconds, he finally lifted his hand and she found her fingers and palm gently crushed within his grasp. His flesh was surprisingly cool to the touch, so it made no sense that it felt as if he had ignited a flame beneath her skin, to travel swiftly up her arm and dispense throughout her body.

He softly pumped her arm twice in agreement, but made no move to release her hand. Her mouth went dry, her fingers tingled, and it was a moment before she retained the presence of mind to pull back from his hold.

Without another word, she snatched up the boxes and whirled around, beating a steady path to the door.

xXx

The morning of her freedom dawned brisk, the ash-tinged clouds luminescent before the weak sun they shielded. Christine willed the clouds away and the sun to make a strong appearance, not wishing to have to postpone her plans for the afternoon. A cardinal alighted upon her windowsill, and Christine smiled through the pane, considering the vibrant bird an omen in her favor. She watched as her small visitor pecked at something in a crack of the wood then spread its wings and flew away, a vivid splash of color in the leaden sky.

With her toilette accomplished, and wearing a serviceable brown wool dress with white lace collar and cuffs, (pushing from her mind the Maestro's dry quips of a sparrow), Christine descended to the main floor and Madame Fairfax's small parlor. The small table had been laid for breakfast, and Christine greeted and joined the older woman, who took up a thread of dialogue as if they had already been engaged in conversation. She criticized the lazy parlor maid, again late with her duties, expressed doubt about the new kitchen maid, and looked forward to the morning service. Finding this the perfect opportunity, Christine asked about the local church and was pleased but confused when the housekeeper issued an invitation to accompany her.

"I usually walk to the village, unless it rains," Madame Fairfax said. "I'll be leaving after our meal, if you want to join me."

"Yes, that sounds lovely. Does Adrienne also attend? Am I not to remain here for the first half of the day?"

"Your services will not be required. The poor dear is in bed with a tummy ache."

"Oh?" Christine said in concern.

"Nothing serious. Likely she had one too many tarts last night, she does have such a sweet tooth. But no, the child doesn't attend services. The Maestro isn't much for the things of God and doesn't insist on the child's upbringing in spiritual matters." The woman sniffed in disapproval. "I doubt he's ever stepped foot inside a church a day in his life. But his grandparents, well that's another story. Such devout souls they were, according to what my mother said. There's a room here at Thornfield where Madame Rochester liked to spend her time, down the hall from the library. It was made into a chapel of sorts. She said she found peace there."

Christine had every intention of finding and visiting that room.

The trek to the village was shorter than taking the brown ribbon of road that wound through the trees in the distance. The leaves had turned vibrant with the colder weather, now a crescendo of bold crimson, gold, and bronze that made a stunning backdrop. They cut across a neighboring farm, and Christine grinned when Madame Fairfax slyly admitted that she brought the widower Macintosh a freshly-made custard pie each week for that right.

The stone chapel was small, the congregation large. They arrived just as everyone stood for the opening hymn and found a place on the outside of a middle pew. Christine drew her cloak around herself, finding the constant and curious glances directed her way a trifle disconcerting, but the sermon, though a bit long-winded, was thankfully not filled with hellfire and brimstone.

It was…an improvement.

Afterward, the young minister stood outside the arched door and shook hands with each of the villagers as they left the building. When Christine came abreast of him, he took her hand in a gentle grip, clasping the back of it with his free hand, and welcomed her to the community, inviting her to come again.

Pleasantly surprised by what she had dreaded might be an ordeal, she nodded and assured him that she would.

Once out of earshot, Madame Fairfax chuckled. "He's a catch, that one."

Christine regarded the woman in shock. "What - the minister?"

"Who else?"

"But he's _a minister_!"

"Yes, he is, and ripe for the plucking. He seemed to take kindly to you. 'Course he doesn't make much, and the woman he takes to wife will be living near poverty."

Horrified by the idea that the man would actually marry, since the priests of her own religion took a vow of chastity, she cast a furtive glance over her shoulder to find his warm brown eyes regarding her.

Swiftly Christine set her sights ahead, determined to forget this conversation.

The walk back to Thornfield helped to stretch the kinks from sore muscles in her back and hips that came from two long hours of sitting nearly motionless on a hard bench. The day remained clear and not overtly sunny, but thankfully absent of the threat of rain, and the grasses they trod through were dry. She brought up the matter of the woodland fairy stage.

"I had near forgotten that place existed," Madame Fairfax puffed, a little breathless, as the twin turrets of Thornfield came into view. She wiped her perspiring brow with a blue kerchief. "I can't see why you would wish to spend any time there, but certainly you are welcome, if you've a mind to visit."

Armed with permission, upon their return Christine immediately sought canvas, easel and the remainder of what she needed, eager to begin her new artistic endeavor. She put brushes, palette, and the tin tubes of paint into a basket for ease of carrying, also slipping in a bit of scone left over from breakfast and a small stalk of sweet black grapes.

The path proved as difficult to traverse as before, thankfully not as muddy, but once Christine stepped into the woodland clearing, she considered it well worth the effort.

Even the air seemed magical here, a misty faded violet, no doubt due to the overshadowing trees, several of whose leaves had turned shades of deep red and bronze. The dark gray stone of the amphitheater-style seating and the gazebo-like stage only enhanced the color.

She set the basket down near the top step, propping the easel carefully with the canvas against it, then grew hesitant, deciding to scout and see if there was a better angle. She walked along the perimeter, curious to find a second path, this one covered in fir needles and small stones, that led out behind close bushes. Her sense of adventure took her down the narrow trail, not quite as overgrown as the original route, with more evergreens and fewer long fronds to push away. She was elated to find that this path led out to the grounds that flanked the forbidden south tower of the manor.

She returned to her vantage point, moving everything further to the center so that she had a frontal view of the stage and the feathery vines that cascaded from the roof nearly to the ground, and the ivy that twined along columns and stage.

The palette bore dried splotches of color, and she opened one of the tin tubes, finding there a lovely shade of green. She squeezed a dab onto the oval wood and collected a thin brush, dipping it into the thick pigment. She stared at the canvas, as blank as her mind.

Now what?

No one had ever taught her how to paint, and she wished she had asked the Maestro for the fundamental instructions when she agreed to borrow his tools. Should she have first outlined the scene with one of her pens as a guide? Surely, it could not be so different or difficult to put color to canvas than using pen and ink.

With ghostly pressure, she touched the wet bristles to the bottom of the white rectangle. A little thrill shot through her to see the stroke of color she made, but the hue was all wrong. Perhaps she should try mixing the paints.

She unscrewed more tubes - a deep golden yellow, dark ocean blue, brilliant white, ebony black, crimson red, a rich acorn brown - and put little dabs of all of them onto the palette in the dried ring of color that was now part of the wood, dipping her brush first into one color, then another, blending, testing. After some time, she found the shade needed but realized she should paint the gazebo first as the focal point, afterward adding the vegetation around it.

With an exasperated little sigh at her oversight, Christine used the stained cloth that had been included with the supplies, wiping off as much of the forest green from the bristles as possible, then set about to blend the proper colors for the stone. She found that if she took a little dab from each color needed to make her own pool of color, this method worked much better than re-dipping the brush again and again in each individual dab of paint.

As she created her little masterpiece, she began to hum in imitation of the birdsong, then stopped, force of habit causing her to look apprehensively over one shoulder. She let out a sudden, reproving giggle, realizing she had no cause for concern. This far from the manor, secluded as she was in this forgotten thicket, she could sing at the top of her lungs if she so desired, and no one would be the wiser.

She passed the afternoon in paints, stopping only now and then to rest from her continual stance and pop a few grapes into her mouth, before rising to take up the brush again. And though she sang, years of keeping her forbidden talent a secret caused her to release the notes in low, mild tones.

When it became somewhat difficult to see, her surprise was vast to look up from the canvas and see how much the skies had darkened. Was it so late already? Or was there an impending storm?

Casting a rueful glance to her incomplete gazebo-stage in oils, she knew she shouldn't linger and risk being caught in a downpour or in darkness. Swiftly she packed up her items, slipping the handle of the basket over one arm and taking special care to carry the canvas, not wishing to smudge the wet paint. Though she walked along the newly found shortcut, the necessary precaution she took made her return slower than normal. The trail came out onto the grounds at last, and she saw that both theories were correct.

Dusk had fallen, and past the south tower, lightning flashed behind distant clouds.

A glimmer of something gold caught her eye, and she turned her focus toward the gray column of looming stone. The strong glow of what might be a candelabrum flickered near the third floor. With the tall, narrow windows of the turret as a guide, the bearer was making steady progress upward. As the firelight reached the window nearest where she stood, Christine caught a glimpse of a dark figure bearing a torch.

It was too far too see clearly, but she felt certain that it was a man.

xXx

* * *

 **A/N: Next up, things take a scorching turn...in more ways than one.**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Thank you for the lovely reviews! :) (Please, forgive any flaws - I've been sick with a head cold as I wrote the last of this chapter, though I went over it several times hoping to catch anything off) - and now...**

* * *

 **IX**

.

The wind picked up as Christine stood and stared high at the tower, the chill finding its way between nape and collar and whisking down her spine.

So tall his head could not be seen through the window, only his torso from the shoulders down apparent, the hulking black figure who climbed the tower stairs could be none other than the Maestro. Lightning flashed behind the column of stone as the dark figure disappeared up the next stair. But why should he be in that part of the manor, the forbidden part…the part that Hazel Bleue had claimed as hers?

Thick drops of rain struck her head in intermittent splats and broke Christine from her wondering trance. She hurried as quickly as possible, burdened down as she was, across the wide stretch of lawn to a nearby entrance door she spotted, but found it barricaded from the outside. She managed to lift the plank, but found when she pushed the latch, the heavy door still would not budge. Quickly she changed direction to the front of the manor, hoping to outrun the worst of the storm as the rain began to come down harder.

After pounding on the locked door, the footman came to her rescue. She managed to enter the manor only slightly damp, the hood of her cloak keeping out most of the rain. The footman that she recalled hearing others call Gregory offered to take her things upstairs.

Had she not been trembling with the cold and exhausted from her run, she would have managed on her own. Gratefully she accepted his offer.

"'Tisn't a fit night for man nor beast." The footman, who looked equal to her in age, set her things down by the hearth. "A good thing, miss, that you returned when you did. Storms in these parts can come upon you unawares and be quite fierce."

As if taking their cue, lightning flashed beyond the curtained window, and a sharp rain pounded against the panes; a few minutes more, and she would have indeed been in the thick of it.

Christine hesitated, uncertain she should bring up the subject, and watched his freckled face carefully for any change of expression. "I found a way out of the forest near the south tower, though the entrance near there was locked..." She let her voice trail off in obvious question.

She did not imagine the tenseness that sharpened his slight, bony shoulders beneath his uniform frock coat, nor the way he evaded her eyes. "It always is, as all entrances are, due to the Maestro's orders. You'll have to use the front entrance in the evening. It's the only one not barred from the outside come nightfall, locked with a key from inside. Because of my duties, I have one, and Madame Fairfax keeps another on her ring. Just find one of us should you need to go outdoors."

This surprised her. She had not presumed the formidable Maestro to be so _...apprehensive? -_ to employ such a strict safeguard. She was almost surprised he had not built a moat of castle lore. What - or who - did he fear getting inside?

"Will there be anything else, miss?"

"Thank you, no."

Once the footman left, amid another violent show of the storm's flickering lights, Christine removed her cloak and shook the droplets from it, laying it over a chair near the hearth to dry. She forced herself to abandon thoughts of mysterious locked doors and concentrate on what more needed done. A vial of clear liquid found in the box of paints contained a pungent odor she associated with cleaning, and a few drops on the paint-splattered cloth proved useful for the care of the brushes. However, she doubted it was created for use on human flesh, and hers broke into a rash so easily.

She turned her attention to the canvas and how it fared the journey, wincing as she pulled away a slender, blade-like leaf that had adhered to the wet paint. The lines of her hard work were smudged in a few places that had still been wet, but perhaps it was no true loss and they could be painted over. At least the oils had not entirely smeared, in part thanks to her carrying the painting turned toward her, with the rain striking the back of the canvas.

Her mind again went to the forbidden tower. Certainly there was nothing unusual about the Maestro visiting a secluded part of his manor, and as the eccentric laundress was under his employ perhaps he had a matter to discuss with her. Yes, of course. A simple and logical explanation. She was conjuring mysteries where there were none to be found.

Christine straightened and moved closer to the hearth. A chambermaid had lit a fire to dispel the chill in the air, and she stretched grateful palms to the heat. As she drew warmth from the low flames, she took inventory of her dress, wrinkling her nose to see its sorry state. Splatters of mud and a streak of green paint marred the brown wool of her skirt. She hated the need to rely on Hazel Bleue for her laundering needs, but did not see that she had any choice. At Lindenwood, those who had the misfortune to live there also were expected to take absolute care of their meager wardrobe, taught at an early age the routine to go about it, but Christine had no access to the required implements here. She very much doubted that even if she were to approach the grouchy laundress for a washboard and soap she would loan them to her.

She had little coinage to her name, using almost the entirety of her earnings to purchase the valise, a much needed new corset, and other bits and sundries necessary to come to Thornfield. The first of the month was not for another week and a half. She would simply have to make do until then.

Changing out of the damp dress she unlaced and unhooked her chief indulgence, a ruffled corset with little blue bows, leaving on her woolen stockings, chemise, and drawers. At some point she hoped to afford a bolt of soft brushed _flanelle_ to make a thick nightdress for winter, but until then she must make do with what she had. She sat before the mirror to take down the twist of her hair, slipping the pins into a wide-mouthed jar as she removed them. She then took up her brush and ran it through her mussed ringlets. The bristles hit a sore spot at her nape, and she winced. She looked on the dresser for her handheld mirror with the intent to angle it so as to see what stung the back of her neck.

Not seeing her hard-earned prized possession, she opened her valise, sorting through the few things there, but was unable to locate the missing mirror. A swift and thorough search of her room, peeking under furniture and into vanity drawers did not produce the small looking glass either.

She stared at the wall in dismay at the idea of one of the maids having absconded with it, and she dreaded having to report a theft. But what else was she to do? If there was a thief slinking through the empty chambers of Thornfield, certainly they must be stopped.

Her fingers instinctively sought her throat and found the chain, following its thin metal thread to the oval locket she gratefully clasped. She rarely took it off, and with this latest discovery, she never would.

Sleep evaded her. After an infinite amount of tossing and turning, pushing the blanket off then pulling it back under her neck, Christine threw the cover aside one last time. She was weary of attempting slumber that refused to come. She needed peace to soothe the turmoil in her mind, and she felt she knew where she might find it.

She slipped her wrapper over her shoulders, tying it securely around her waist. Taking the candelabrum, she lit all three candles and exited her bedchamber.

The manor was quiet, the servants having finished their duties and retired for the night. In each of the main corridors one gas lamp toward the center was left lit and turned down, the connecting chambers closed off by shut doors. She arrived at the right corridor, and after peeking behind two doors found her destination.

The room was small, perhaps half the size of her bedchamber, the décor one of soothing blues and deep greens among the dark wood and gold fixtures. A shimmering blue paper flocked with gold covered the walls. A small altar-like table with two silver candlesticks stood against the far wall, with an elaborate iron crucifix above, and a long, velvet cushion of deep blue lay spread beneath on which to kneel. To the right, against the wall, sat a chair with an upholstered seat. The room was spare and windowless, but there was a sort of _...comfort_ in the air. A quiet stillness that bespoke peace.

She set down the candelabrum and sank to the chair, inhaling deeply and wishing to absorb the tranquility deep into her troubled soul. Perhaps she only imagined the sweet stillness, brought on by the housekeeper's earlier ruminations. Perhaps...

However, she did not imagine the music.

Christine sat up straighter, her astonished gaze going to the flocked wall nearest her, beyond which she heard distant notes thunder in a rolling wave. She did not think to hesitate, feeling almost compelled to learn where the music originated.

Weaving through dim corridors, she followed the rapid waterfall of notes that covered octaves, stunned when they never faltered, increasing in volume as she approached their source. The music sounded almost livid, violent in its expression, but that did not deter her from proceeding steadily forward, until she came to a door that stood slightly ajar, as if it had not clicked shut after recklessly being swung closed. She set the candelabrum on a narrow table against the wall and slipped closer to the door. With a hand that trembled, she pushed gently on the panel, urging the gap wider. The notes intensified in strength.

She recognized the music room immediately from her previous glimpse of Adrienne's lesson, and sitting tall on the bench, his back to her, the Maestro ran his fingers with vehement precision along the keyboard of a grand piano. The dancing flames from a candelabrum stood atop the impressive instrument and spotlighted him in its pale glow.

A robe of black velvet stretched across his broad shoulders, the ivory frills of his shirtsleeves spilling from the cuffs near his wrists, his hands effortlessly reaching opposite sides of the keys in concise, staccato chords. He brought his hands together in gradual confrontation toward the middle then spread them wide again in rapid flourish, his lean torso swaying from side to side with each sweep of his arms in his emotional overture.

Christine watched him, entranced by his mastery. Never had she heard such an outpouring of passionate notes so skillfully woven, and she clutched the lintel as she unabashedly stared.

She should go, she knew she should go, but found she could not move. She felt held in place with speechless wonder by the fluid runs of notes that blended seamlessly from one orchestration into the next. They went on endlessly - the room resounding with their abrupt shifts and minor pauses, a tangible force that seemed to pummel the very air she breathed and reverberate inside her. His long, nimble fingers manipulated the keys in dark, sonorous command, as if to exorcise his demons or perhaps to summon them. Until finally, the fervent cry of music softened in gradual shifts to the gentle croon of a lullaby. She swayed a step forward and clutched the door frame hard, trying to find focus to break from this frightening power held over her and slip away before he could discover her presence there.

And then all ideas of escape fled, as with a sense of awed disbelief she heard the chords take on notes eerily familiar, yet markedly different – a composition remembered now formed into his unique creation. This version he played was a beautiful stream without pauses, but the same melody she never thought again to hear, except released secretly from her lips.

She let out a gasp. Almost as if he'd heard that wisp of sound, in the next fractured heartbeat the melancholy aria came to an abrupt finish. His broad shoulders stiffened though he did not turn to look.

"Why are you here?"

His voice was raw silk, in and of itself its own music, even with the telltale tremor that told of his present vulnerability. A word she never would have before associated with the Master of Thornfield.

She refrained from a reply, hoping there was still time to step back from the door before he could turn and spot her shrinking against its frame.

"Mademoiselle."

Christine blinked. How could he possibly know that it was she who stood there?

Her frozen lips attempted to form the proper words. "I-I was in the chapel. I heard music." She rolled her tongue against the roof of a dry mouth, seeking moisture. "That song you played just now. How is it that you know it?"

He released a weary sigh, a slight droop bowing his shoulders. She frowned to see that her words seemed to spark a bad memory. For a moment she didn't think he would respond.

"In my travels, I have come across numerous styles of music, both the intricate and the unassuming, some of which provide more inspiration than others. That piece is one of them."

A frisson of warmth blossomed inside her heart to find a kindred spirit with _this_ man, a bond she once never would have believed possible. For a moment she was tempted to tell him of her dear Papa, and how he taught the old folk song to her, how as an orphaned child, she sang the hopeful words to the stars when she was alone and frightened, and the wealth of comfort it had given.

But the moment passed, stolen away by years of harsh ridicule for the voice she possessed.

She shifted from one foot to the other in unease, her nightclothes rustling with the movement.

"No!" he snapped, mistaking the sound for her approach. "Stay where you are."

He grabbed something from the piano and brought the item around his face, what she now understood was his mask. His long fingers swept to the back of his head and tied the strings in place, smoothing over his hair there one time. Then slowly, he turned to face her.

His eyes were golden pinpoints of light in the gloom of near darkness, and she sucked in a breath, clutching the top edges of her bed wrapper at her throat. Those burning eyes did a slow sweep of her form, from top to bottom then up again, and though she was clothed in material from neck to toe, that fact did nothing to reassure.

Letting out a soft, irritable huff through his nostrils, he half-turned to pick up a glass of cut crystal that sat at the edge of the piano. He took a careful sip of whatever it contained, the mask a clear hindrance, then studied the liquid in his glass.

She waited for his harsh reprimand for spying, her body tensed in preparation of his cutting words.

"Do you like music, Miss Daaé?"

She blinked in surprise at his mild question, tempted to say no in automatic response. But how could she deny what many times had given her the will to endure?

"Yes." Her answer came out almost in a whisper. "You play with the skill of the masters."

"And what do you know of the masters?"

The query wasn't meant as an insult, spoken softly and out of curiosity.

Papa had told her of the master musicians: Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, and others. He had played their compositions on his violin when in a melancholy mood - in her adoring eyes, a master in his own right. But she only shook her head.

"Nothing really. I only meant to say that you play so beautifully."

He gave a distant, offhand nod. "I have found music to be the ideal catharsis when nothing else can appease the soul."

She nodded to herself. How well she understood.

The Maestro lost the battle of indifference and looked at her then, noting her hand still clenched her wrapper, one arm held protectively across her waist. Her hair was all a tumble about her shoulders, a glorious profusion of dark ringlets he never imagined her to possess. What a blunder on behalf of society and their endless rules to dictate such tresses must be stowed away within combs and pins. A shine was apparent in her wide dark eyes, but he did not think the glassiness due to fear.

Had he not been so far immersed in his musical rage of helplessness to become alert of her presence earlier, he regrettably might have turned his damnable temper on her, standing there and looking so innocent and lost. So utterly unaware. A little gray bird fluttering in the corner of the half-open door, ready to take flight at the least provocation. Once his enraged senses had cleared enough to gain a measure of control and recognize his surroundings, he became aware of the acrid odor of the solvent used on his brushes, and knew at once the identity of his captive audience.

His keen eyes spotted the flecks of green and yellow on her dainty wrist and slim fingers, and he allowed the glimmer of a satisfied smile to tilt his lips. Her slow intake of breath did not escape his notice, and he lifted his attention to her stunned face.

Their eyes held for several rapid heartbeats. Deep within he felt a new fire stir.

"The hour is late," he said gruffly, turning back to face the piano. "Go to bed."

"Yes. I-I should." She cleared her throat. "Goodnight, Maestro."

Once she darted away, he grabbed his glass in one tight hand, sorely tempted to throw it against the wall, and drained the contents.

xXx

The following morning, it was with grave reluctance that Christine reported the theft of her handheld mirror. Before taking that step, she first made another thorough sweep of the room, but without success.

At Lindenwood, one year a girl was caught stealing food from the kitchen. Her palms had been brutally slapped with a stick until they bled and she wasn't allowed to partake of meals for three days, given only water to drink.

For that reason Christine felt impelled to speak.

"What will happen to the thief when my mirror is found?" she asked Madame Fairfax.

"They will be dismissed."

"And that is all?"

"Unless you wish to press charges."

"No, that's alright," Christine declined in relief.

The housekeeper conducted a search of the servants' rooms, but nowhere could the mirror be found.

Over the next week, Christine felt a distinct chill from the staff at Thornfield. Maids, who previously greeted her with a polite smile, now turned a cold shoulder or eyed her in wariness. The footman no longer offered a gracious greeting, but spoke with clipped words and a new stiffness to his jaw. More than once she questioned her decision to report her missing possession, but if there was a thief skulking about the manor, she wanted that person found. And she should think the rest of the household would too.

During her free afternoon, Christine slipped away to paint again, grateful for the peaceful seclusion those few hours offered. She made it a point to return before twilight fell, not wishing to be locked out. But no matter where she went, whether giving lessons to Adrienne or sequestered deep in the forest, memories of her occasional encounters with the Maestro followed.

He remained absent in body, but his presence overtook her thoughts.

She had been stunned to realize his expertise as a musician, but more so to hear the song of the angel chime in gentle melody from his fingertips. The urge to bring forth the sweet notes from her lungs in accompaniment had been almost impossible to resist.

She made no more nighttime visits to the chapel, uncertain that she might again hear his music and be drawn to him, apprehensive of what might happen if she did. He had been uncharacteristically soft-spoken in his despair, and it had pulled something deep inside her. But that steady, sudden fire burning in his eyes when he had looked her way, and their eyes had held, both stirred her senses and troubled her soul.

x

A full week had elapsed when Christine again heard footsteps running outside her door at night, followed by a peal of distant laughter.

Startled, she closed her book of poetry, setting it aside. She slid from beneath the coverlet and threw her wrapper about her chemise, belting it once before grabbing the single candlestick and moving swiftly to the door.

A glance into Adrienne's room assured that the child slept soundly, and Christine closed the girl's door and hurried to where she had heard the steps retreat.

She turned the corner into the long stretch of corridor. On the far distant wall she saw the yellow glow of flame shrink swiftly and disappear into darkness.

Clutching the skirts of her chemise and wrapper with her free hand, she walked fast, hoping to catch the culprit who she suspected might be the thief. Finally, she turned the corner into the adjoining corridor, noting the yellow glow of a torch bobbing in the distance.

She hastened past closed doors of rooms never before entered, the flagstones hard and cold beneath her stocking-feet. Corridor along corridor, she went, until she was sure she must have reached the opposite wing of the manor. She turned another corner, to see a figure in voluminous black dash from an open room and escape in the opposite direction. From this distance and cloaked as they were, it was impossible to tell if the culprit was fat or thin, a man or a woman.

Christine quickened her pace, determined to catch the thieving scoundrel. The padded thuds of her jarring steps drew her closer, the flame of her paltry candle blowing out with the wind stirred from her mad run. She let the useless candlestick fall from her hand, the ring of heavy brass hitting stone strident to her ears.

The tall, shadowy figure turned and growled, hurling the torch hard in Christine's direction.

Christine jumped to one side, barely evading the missile of flame. The torch landed close, its threat now harmless where it lay burning in the center of the stone floor. Smoke filtered to her nostrils and she heard the hissing snaps and sudden roar of flame - aware it did not come from the torch near her feet.

Anxiously, she turned back to look behind, toward the sound.

xXx

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 **A/N: Those who know Jane Eyre know what comes next - though I'll be putting my own spin on things of course, especially since this is more an offshoot of that. ;-)**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Thank you for the lovely reviews! :) I'm glad to know you guys are enjoying this! And now...**

* * *

X

Out of the open chamber from which the nighttime wraith had emerged, thick tendrils of grey smoke floated into the corridor while orange flickers of light illuminated the lintel. Forgetting about the thief, Christine swiftly retraced her steps to see...

And came to a standstill, her mouth dropping open in shocked horror.

A pall of thick smoke clouded the bedchamber, making it difficult to see and breathe. The hangings of a massive four-poster furthest from the door and those at the foot were ablaze with snakes of hissing fire that quickly spread upward and outward, consuming all they made contact with in their fiery venom. A man lay motionless, deep in sleep, while a tongue of fire dropped with deadly aim to the thick satin coverlet, beneath which he lay. A mask covered most of his face.

Christine's lapse into paralyzing shock to realize the owner of the bedchamber was brief, and she bolted forward.

"Maestro!" she screamed at him to awaken. She snatched the coverlet from his supine form, throwing it to the ground.

His eyelids snapped open and he sat bolt upright, the fire that reflected in his eyes fierce for an instant, before he grasped the peril of the situation. He leapt from the bed to join her as she struggled to pull the hangings at the foot free from their rungs. Smoke invaded her mouth and nose, causing her to cough helplessly. Her eyes burned and her hands stung, but she did not cease in her attempts to pull loose the flaming bed curtains and cast them to the stone floor.

A shower of fire fell near her foot, and she shrieked as its singing heat was felt through her nightskirts. His arm pressed to her collarbone, his hand to her shoulder, quickly pushing her back from the danger, after which he grabbed up the coverlet and beat at the hangings.

Spotting a vase nearby, Christine snatched it up, flowers and all, and threw the meager contents over one line of serpentine fire, satisfied as the viper lost some of its bite. A half decanter of liquid sat near an empty glass by the bed, that area still free of flame. Coughing, she reached for the crystal bottle with the intention of also dumping it over the fire.

"No," he barked, beating at the conflagration on the other side of the bed. "The pitcher by the washbasin!"

Christine rushed to the washboard and grabbed the porcelain urn, throwing its contents on the disintegrating bed curtains nearest him, drenching the strip of curtain and narrowly missing his head.

The beastly fire at last succumbed under their continual attack, all that remained to remind of its invasion a heap of smoking, wet curtains and a few patches of flame that struggled to persist along one hanging still suspended. With a violent wrench, he pulled what was left of that bed curtain free and threw it to the ground with the other ruins.

Christine pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, slightly doubling over as her coughs came with more violent force. Her lungs felt stifled with the foul air, stinging her nose and throat and making it difficult to inhale.

The Maestro strode with purpose to where she stood, and for the first time that night she took dull awareness of his tall, lean form clothed in black silk trousers and a matching loose tunic, his dark hair tousled and hanging wild about his head. Without explanation, he put his hands to her shoulders and steered her through the grey fog of smoke toward the opposite side of the room and another door which he opened, urging her through it.

With the rush of adrenaline dissolving now that the danger had passed, she became intensely aware of the horrid pain in her hands and the sole of her right foot. She winced sharply, holding her palms upward and crossed at the wrists against her chest, but said nothing. He barely touched her, only his hands the directing force to guide her faltering steps as he brought her through the dark chamber and to an upholstered chair near tall, covered windows. Here the air was cleaner though the acrid smell of smoke still pervaded her lungs.

Once she gratefully sank to the thick cushion, he wrenched the draperies to one side. By the light of the moon that cast a silvery-blue haze on those surroundings within its path, she could see that he'd brought her to what appeared to be his private sitting room. A hearth stood against the same wall as the one in his bedroom, sharing the chimney, a short sofa near it, a table piled with books in a far corner. A tall case of them stood behind the chair in which she sat. Along the mantel of the hearth statuettes stood in a row, and paintings – his own works she assumed – hung from walls and stood in a stack in one corner.

He threw open the windows, pushing them wide and allowing the chill air to rush inward. Christine drew in deep cleansing breaths of air between harsh coughs, allowing its purity to wash out her lungs, again lightly pressing the back of her hand to cover her mouth, the only part of her hand that did not burn.

" _Quid est quod fuit ipsum quod futurum_ …"

His voice was low and deep, as if he spoke only to himself, but Christine heard and blinked in surprise. _What is that which hath been is that which is to come_ …

"This has happened before?"

He turned from the window sharply. "What?"

"What you said – about history repeating itself."

"You know Latin." His words came calm in surprised realization.

"It was required at Lindenwood."

Her throat felt raspy and sore, in complaint of the few words she'd uttered, and she coughed again, lifting her hand.

He let out a soft hiss at her distress. Once she rested her hand back in her lap, palms facing her midsection, he crouched down before her and touched her wrist.

"Let me see."

His words were quiet, even gentle, but gave no room for refusal. She hesitantly brought her limp hand closer for his inspection. He frowned at the red patches on her palm and inside her fingers.

Abruptly he straightened. "Remain here until I return."

She nodded wearily and watched as he returned to his bedchamber. She heard the wooden creak and snap of what sounded like windows opening there, and then padded footsteps disappeared into the corridor, as if he'd donned slippers.

A cold breeze blew against her face, as she sat with hands cupped, the backs of them resting uselessly in her skirts, and stared out the open pane at the silver-edged landscape. Bountiful trees, their colors sapped by the night into monotonous shades of gray and black, loomed all around. Austere. Menacing. But here, inside this comfortable room, she wondered if she was any safer.

He could have been killed. Murdered in his bed. Had she arrived even a short few seconds later, the coverlet could have combusted into flame and he might have burned to death. She could not fathom why he had taken so long to rouse – had his sleep been so deep as to be unaware of the danger? She recalled the half empty decanter and glass by his bedside and his refusal for her to throw it on the fire. Had he been drinking spirits? Was that what caused his lethargic awakening?

She had never seen anyone full of spirits, not that she could recall, only remembered the continual warnings drummed into her head to stay away from the wicked devil's brew, as those at Lindenwood had called it.

With the panic of the fire behind her, alone in the stillness of the empty chamber, Christine began to shake, and she didn't believe it entirely due to the reduced warmth of the sitting room.

Unable to prevent her mind's journey into the past quarter hour, she retraced the moments before she'd found the bed afire - and that mysterious figure she chased through the darkened corridors. She had not been able to distinguish any defining characteristics, but something in the way the shadowy form moved led her to believe it was a woman. A woman who clearly wanted him dead.

The Maestro returned, an embroidered robe of ebony and gold now hanging loosely from his broad shoulders. He carried a washbasin and wooden box in his hands, pausing to light a lamp on the wall. Again he lowered himself before her, dropping to one knee and setting down the items beside him. He barely wrung out a cloth, streams of water splashing into a basin, then lifted golden eyes to her watchful ones.

"This will no doubt sting a bit."

She gave a terse nod, allowing him to take her hand and cup it in his large palm. With extreme gentleness, he gave slow dabs of the cold, drenched cloth along the inside of her hand, holding it for long pauses before moving it again. Tears rimmed her eyes as he deftly patted the damaged flesh, and she flinched sharply, letting out an involuntary little yelp, when he met with the fleshy patch near her thumb.

Beneath the mask, his mouth drew into a thin line. His eyes flicked up to hers, and she read the grave concern there, before he administered the same cooling treatment to her other hand. She watched him work, pulling at her lip with her teeth to deflect another cry.

"Is it – is it very bad?"

"Your hands will be sore for several days and will need care. There may be scars…" Releasing his hold, he opened the box and withdrew a small jar from within. He pulled out the stopper. "Hold out your hands."

She slowly lifted them, palms up. She did not understand why, he was no physician, but she trusted him not to hurt her. He seemed knowledgeable about exactly what to do.

He dabbed a small amount of the clear salve in both hands, and she drew a little breath through her teeth. With careful, feather-light strokes he spread the jellied treatment over each red bit of swelling flesh then reached again into the box for a roll of linen. He cut two strips and bound the first loosely around one hand, tucking and tying the end.

"Is this truly necessary?" she wondered aloud. It would make lessons with Adrienne more than a little awkward.

"You will want to keep the blistered skin clean. Do not allow anything to make contact with it. I also do not recommend removal of the bandages except when further treatment is required."

Once he finished with the second piece of linen, loosely wrapping it around her other hand, he lifted solemn eyes, which immediately dropped to her cheek. He reached up with his thumb, gently brushing away a tear that had escaped.

"You saved me tonight." His voice was a soft rasp of wonder. "I have yet to reason why."

His admission stunned and confused her. "I couldn't let you perish. You needed my help. What else was I to do?"

He studied her, what she could see of his expression unreadable. "You tremble. It is too cold."

Immediately he straightened and moved toward the sofa. He plucked up a blanket there and tucked it around her shoulders before walking off into the bedroom again. She heard the clink of glasses and after a short time, he approached, handing her a glass of cut crystal.

"Can you manage?" he asked.

"Yes, I think so."

She hesitated before taking the glass between both bandaged hands, recognizing the pale golden liquid similar to what had been in the decanter by his bed.

"Drink," he urged. "It will help steady the nerves."

She watched him bring his own glass to his lips and toss the small amount of liquid to the back of his throat.

Devil's brew or not, she coveted steady nerves at the moment.

Awkwardly clutching the glass, Christine took a healthy sip. The empty glass dropped from her clumsy hold and hit her skirts as she sputtered and again coughed, a different sort of fire scorching a wicked path down her throat. She had not known it would burn so! A decided warmth infiltrated her bones, making her almost calm, enough to want to rest her shoulders back against the cushioned chair and listen to his deep, quiet voice glide like silk over her abused senses…

She should not be here. In his private sitting room, so late in the night. Should not be in his private sitting room at all.

"I should go."

With her forearms, Christine pushed herself up off the chair, the thick glass falling harmlessly the short distance to the rug. She took a swift step then gave a little sob, her leg protectively folding at the dart of pain that burned through the sole of her foot near her heel. Instantly he was there, catching her before she could hit the floor. He drew her up against his side to support her, sharply nudging the glass away from underfoot with his slipper and settled her the step back into the chair.

"You are injured elsewhere?" His gaze dropped to the hem of her nightdress brushing the floor and her stocking toes peeking from beneath.

She swallowed hard. "It is manageable. I just...I need a moment."

"Indeed." His word softly scorned her foolish little fib. "You are clearly unable to walk, and it is doubtful that 'a moment' will alter your condition."

She drew her brows together, having no answer to give.

"Allow me to give you aid, as you have given to me."

His words were the softest silk, his consideration wrapping around her soul. He had proved his skill in medical matters, and she shouldn't ignore the wound. But the impropriety of the act and in _these_ surroundings needled her moral conscience. As she looked into his questioning eyes, she saw beyond the concern a touch of unease. That he should also be unnerved to touch her more intimately soothed her fears, and she wondered if he had ever touched a woman in such a fashion.

Her cheeks heated with the random thought, but she gave the barest of nods in acquiescence. He moved to the window to give her privacy, turning his back to her.

"Tell me when you are ready to proceed," he said quietly.

After a moment's hesitation, her wary eyes boring into his back to ensure he did not stray from his spot, Christine pulled aside her grey wrapper to lift her chemise, even managing to tug the loose leg of her drawers above her knee to the topmost edge of the stocking. But when she tried to curl the tops of her exposed fingers to untie the bowed knot that secured it, a gasp of pain fell from her lips.

His back stiffened at the sound. "Are you alright, mademoiselle?"

Frustration with her wretched state of helplessness drove her words. "I can't seem to… my hands."

He appeared to understand. With slow regard, he turned his head to look, then moved to stand in the place he earlier knelt. When he made no move to act beyond that, she worriedly looked up. His hand clenched and unclenched at his side with a nervous sort of energy.

"If I may?"

His words came a bit gruff, and she brusquely nodded, not trusting her voice. That he should request permission for _anything_ shocked her as much as the request he asked permission for. Yet she could see no way around the situation but to accept his aid.

He again sank his towering height to one knee, his somber attention fastening to her lower leg covered in black wool, before his fingertips plucked at the ties of her garter midway at her thigh and pulled loose the knot of the bowed ribbon. She held her breath as he rolled down the thick stocking with clinical precision, a belying tremor to his long fingers as they skimmed her bare flesh with the motion. A shiver went through her, a rush of heat invading her. She tensed her muscles in preparation for what was to come.

He pulled the stocking from her foot, cradling the back of her slim ankle in one large hand. He exercised more caution, his movements slower, but that didn't prevent a little yelp as the wool came away with a bit of difficulty from that part of her skin.

"There, there, little dove," he crooned in comfort, and in that moment she was no longer annoyed that he should call her by whatever fowl he wished to compare her with at the time. She only wanted the pain to cease, and she trusted he had the ability to make that happen. Already her palms stung less, cocooned in the shielding linen, the salve he used a cooling balm to her injured skin.

Gently he lifted her exposed lower leg, propping her ankle against his upraised knee. After a cursory inspection, he frowned.

"Keep it elevated," he directed and hastened across the room, bringing back a footstool he set down before her. She brought her calf to rest on the leather cushion, the edge of her foot hanging off the edge and giving him better access to work.

She sucked in her lips, biting the insides, as he leaned in closer to dab at the anguished skin with the cold, wet cloth.

"It seems that you stepped on a sliver of burning wood or something similar," he informed her, dousing the cloth in water and barely wringing it before applying it again. "Your stocking appears to have acted as a buffer and prevented the burn from going too deep."

She knew she should be grateful for that, but the existing pain made it difficult. She worked to bite back tears as he pressed the drenched cloth to the bottom of her foot and held it there for some time.

"What would lead you to come to this part of the manor in the middle of the night?"

The Maestro's words did not accuse but held a note of demand.

"I heard someone running outside my door and thought it might be the thief about to strike a second time. I gave chase."

"Thief?" he asked and looked up at her as if hearing about the incident for the first time.

Had Madame Fairfax not told him? Christine had assumed she would. In the hierarchy of servitude at Thornfield, all complaints were directed to the head of housekeeping, who then, if she deemed it necessary, would report the infraction to the master. Certainly, since the thief had not yet been caught, the Maestro deserved to know what was going on within his home.

"Someone went into my room when I wasn't there. They stole my hand mirror."

"You are sure of this?" His voice was grim.

"I searched twice before I reported it missing."

"Why was I not told?" he demanded, his hand that cupped her ankle tensing though the pressure applied to her foot remained gentle. By the manner in which he spoke, she did not believe the terse words to be directed to her. "Were the servants' chambers searched?"

"Yes." All but one. "Although…" She hesitated.

The dim form of the shadowy figure she chased had been too slim and willowy to be Hazel Bleue. But in the shadows of darkness, tricks could be played upon the eyes, and the person had been wearing a billowing cloak.

"I don't believe the same can be said for the laundress," she broached hesitantly. "I don't believe the third floor was even included in the search."

His eyes flashed with an expression she could not discern. Immediately he refocused his attention to the sole of her foot.

"I will see to it."

"Whoever it was discovered I was chasing them," she said after a short silence, more to divert her mind from the unavoidable pain than to relate needless information. He smoothed the salve thickly onto the sole of her foot. "They threw their torch at me and ran off. It was then I smelled the smoke and saw it coming from your room."

He had grown very still, the muscles in his shoulders rigid.

"And you could not see the scoundrel's face?"

"There wasn't enough light. Everything happened too swiftly."

With a curt nod, he wiped the salve from his fingers onto a cloth then cut another strip of linen from the roll. He wrapped the bandage loosely around her foot with practiced care, again tucking and tying the ends. Once he finished, he closed the box and took both it and the basin to the table.

Her bones felt limp but her nerves were on edge. She tried to relax against the chair as her stomach began mildly to churn. Her head grew lightheaded with exhaustion and she closed her eyes.

She felt his return more than heard him approach and looked up in question.

"It is apparent that you won't be able to return to your room of your own accord." He hesitated before continuing. "If you will permit me."

"You…" she took a breath. "You mean to _carry_ me?"

His lips twitched. "Unless you mean to roost here or sprout wings and fly, I see no other recourse, little dove."

His words were not unkind, spoken with a teasing sort of tenderness, and she felt the warmth flush her cheeks. He was not wrong; there was no other way. She certainly couldn't remain in this chair of his personal sitting room until morning came.

"Yes, alright."

She held her breath as he leaned down and slipped one strong arm beneath her legs, the other along her back. He lifted her with ease, almost as if she weighed next to nothing.

Her heart fluttered madly, a wild thing in her breast. She had never, _never_ been this close to a man, never had a man hold her so intimately, and she was unprepared for the wave of intense heat that made her feel more than a little lightheaded, with nerves, and she did not know what else. Crushed against his solid chest as she was, with his arms and hands supporting her in places all those at Lindenwood would be aghast to witness, she felt the muscles contract along his lean form. Thin layers of cloth between them were all that veiled complete scandal, and she could feel the heat of his body through the bedclothes soak through to her skin. The cut of his sleeping tunic allowed for a glimpse of flesh dusted with dark curls beneath his collarbone, and she closed her eyes tightly against the sight, finding her breath had hitched strangely.

She dared not look at him, remaining as frozen as she could, her bandaged hands loosely cupped against her middle.

The walk was long, and with every breath, every beat of her heart, she wished it over. The corridors were mostly unlit, but his step never faltered, and she wondered with his cat's eyes if he could see into the heavy darkness. Soon, she found herself concentrating on each intake and exhalation of his breath, which quickened, along with her heartbeats, into soft pants the further he walked. She knew she must be a burden, and when he strode into her bedchamber and carefully laid her upon the bed, she at last turned her eyes up to him.

"Thank you," she said and touched his sleeve as he straightened. "I am grateful to you for all you've done for me."

His eyes flickered behind the mask. "It is I who extends the deepest gratitude, mademoiselle. Not many would care whether I lived to see another day."

"I find that difficult to believe."

"Nonetheless, it is true."

He leaned over her, looming close, and instinctively Christine drew back against the pillow. He frowned at her involuntary flinch of fear and snatched the other pillow from beside her, quickly straightening again.

"I-I'm sorry," she whispered, not wanting him to think that after all he'd done for her that she distrusted his motive.

He said nothing, moving to cushion the pillow under her bandaged foot.

"The dressings must be changed twice daily. I will give instructions to Madame Fairfax," he said stiffly, and she missed his ease of earlier. "You must stay in bed while you recover, until the wound heals."

"But – you said that could take several days."

"Yes."

"What of my lessons with Adrienne?"

"They will need to be resumed at a later date."

She gave a little shake of her head, feeling useless and helpless, unable to fulfill the duties for which she had been employed.

"I think if I sit in a chair I can manage, though I might need some help turning pages and getting to the chamber. Maybe if I had a crutch or a cane -?"

"Christine."

She shivered to hear the syllables of her name so sweetly float from his tongue. He had never addressed her thus, by using her familiar name, and she found the utterance to be like deep music.

"You risked your life to save mine. How can I do anything less but to give you the time you need to recover?"

She had no words, and once he swept from the room, Christine found the memory of being held in his arms both a torment and a pleasure that took her softly into dreams…

Until a distant wail filtered through her light slumber and brought her to an eerie sort of wakefulness…

Or had it also been a dream?

xXx


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews – I'm sorry for how long this chapter has taken to write and post. I intended to post it long before Halloween. Thanks also for your patience, and for those who read my update on my profile last week and sent words of sympathy for our loss, thank you for that as well.  
**

 **Things are still a bit hectic here, but I hope to get back on a regular posting schedule soon (a chapter of one of my ongoing stories every week or every other week). As usual, this has been looked at only by me (forgive any mistakes)… And now…**

* * *

 **XI**

The Maestro sat hunched over his cluttered desk, pushing aside mundane paperwork to scribble music notes onto parchment. Despite the absence of a piano, he toiled at this preferred labor, the desire to compose once more effervescent in his blood.

It had been too long, years, since he picked up pen and ink and allowed the music reverberating within his mind to lead him. Over a decade had elapsed since the music fostered true inspiration. On that occasion an Angel's voice in the night led him away from throwing himself off a high cliff to be smashed by rocks and carried out to sea wrapped inside violent waves. But there was another time, the first time inspiration visited months before that, when a girl two years younger than he inspired him, her folly being that she'd been given all she ever wanted, unable to comprehend the word "no". The brief inspiration she birthed with her smile died with the toppling of her slender body over a balcony rail, followed by the horrendous wails of grief from her distraught father, the only man ever to treat Erik with kindness, the only man ever to whom he felt indebted…

He closed his eyes at the painful recollection. It was a bitter satire that inspiration once came to him, briefly, preventing his harsh plummet to the rocks; but with its former visit through the charm of a lesser muse, her plummet of fright seized from him all musical inspiration.

What caused the burgeoning melodies to ring through his soul a third time? Not the fire, surely; tragedy had only ever muted its voice. He suspected the captivating new governess was responsible for fickle Inspiration's rebirth into his life.

Christine's quiet manner intrigued him, her daring a bafflement to him. She had battled the flames to save his unworthy carcass, putting her own life at risk, and been burned for her kindness. By accounts he had heard as a child, his grandmother had done the same for his grandfather when they were unwed and she was still a governess. A governess like Christine.

But no, he must not make too much of this. He had no right.

With the manner of man he'd become and the monstrous appellation of his curse upon being born, he did not deserve Christine Daaé's consideration or her attentiveness, however innocent and well-intentioned. This was _not_ a case of history repeating itself. Only that of someone who knew such history, repeating its madness...

And he had done the same.

With the dismal secret he withheld that hovered above his neck like the wicked blade of Madame Guillotine, he would be an avaricious scoundrel to covet any worthwhile association with Mademoiselle Daaé.

By his extensive list of crimes, he deserved the punishment of being rendered headless, though wasn't fool enough to step into the enemies' court and put his head on a chopping block. His past, thickly colored in blood, was a partial reason he adopted his latest moniker while in Paris, into a creature that wasn't visible…a ghost.

In greater part, the managers paid keen attention and listened with a frightened ear when they thought supernatural entities had invaded their theatre.

The imbeciles.

Erik's mind revisited the reason for Christine's injuries, and his notes turned dark and ominous, jarring to the ears, a force that pummeled the heart - as would these chords be if written in this lower octave. They hardly correlated with what he previously jotted on his musical staff of notes, and he crumpled the paper in one hand in disgust.

Someone had tried to kill him, and he was reasonably certain who the offender was...

A stir at the door brought his attention that way, and to the entrance of a lesser offender.

"Madame Fairfax."

At his grave tone, the old woman stood a bit anxiously, as if undecided she should enter the library or go back the way she'd come. He took the choice from her.

"Come inside and close the door."

She did as ordered, tensely coming to a stop before his desk.

"You have been spreading tales," he accused grimly, planting an elbow on the desk and pointing a long finger her way.

She clutched and kneaded her apron between tight fists.

"Maestro?"

"Do not play the bewildered and innocent with me. You have been spreading tales about my relations," he continued sternly, clutching the brass lions' heads carved at the ends of the chair arms with both hands. "Incidents that occurred decades ago, in England."

She alone of those still living knew the closeted skeletons of truth long concealed from public knowledge. His grandparents' story had been enlightening, fodder for gossip and scandalous in the extreme, but nowhere near the black infamy he had created in a faraway land. Thank God this meddlesome woman knew nothing of that.

"Gossiping to the new maid about the secrets of my ancestors," he reminded. "The fire, for instance."

"Fire, monsieur?" Her voice was a wisp.

"Similar to what occurred last night. Years ago you told me of the incident that my grandfather experienced while he slept, as I presume you have told others."

Beneath the ruffled cap, her face went a shade pale. "Then – it wasn't the accident of an overturned candle?"

"Have you ever known me to be so careless?"

She cast her troubled gaze to the floor. "No, monsieur."

His lips thinned. "I **will** **not** tolerate such tale-bearing. The walls have ears, Madame, and you must be vigilant to hold your tongue."

"Oui, monsieur." She fidgeted, clearly wishing to be away from him.

"Which brings me to the next point for discussion: when matters of consequence arise, _**significant** matters_ of which I should be informed – you are **_not_** to remain silent. As many years as you have worked for me and my father and my grandfather before that, you should not need to be reminded." He shook his head in disgust. "Why was I not informed of the theft of Mademoiselle Daaé's hand mirror?"

"Oh." She blinked as if realization just dawned. "I'm sorry, Maestro. I forgot."

"You _forgot?"_

"You were nowhere on the estate when it happened and didn't return until long after I conducted the search. When next I saw you, it clean slipped my mind. It's been happening off and on lately – old age creeping up on me I expect."

He clenched his teeth at her ineptitude. For the most part, he was pleased with her work. She had been with his family from the beginning, in England, born into this household, and he had no desire to find and train another housekeeper to abide by his rigid set of rules. She knew his darkest secret, the version he shared with her at any rate, and to let her go could be tantamount to endangering the privacy he required on the subject should she "forget" and let hidden truths spill out to prying townsfolk.

"I will ignore your incompetence this time," he grimly stated. "If it happens again, there will be consequences."

"I understand," she nodded. "But there is more I must tell you, monsieur."

"More?" He lifted his brow.

"The search turned up nothing; I didn't expect it would. Not when she told me of the footsteps in the corridor and the strange laughter in the night. It's _her,_ I'd stake my life on it."

He nodded pensively, having already come to that conclusion. No one else at Thornfield would have the temerity to end his life or make the attempt, and he resolved to have a word with the inept Hazel Bleue once he finished here.

"Mademoiselle Daaé was injured last night and is bedridden." He turned back to the crucial issue at hand. "Her dressings on her hands and foot will need to be changed daily. I left a salve on her bedside table." Retrieving his pen, he jotted down the names of several herbs on a blotter and tore the sheet free. "Acquire these at the apothecary if you do not have them on hand for a remedial tea."

"You wish me to walk to the village today, monsieur?" She held back with obvious reluctance and cleared her throat. "I still have half a bottle of the elixir I purchased from the traveling salesman. I could use that."

He scowled. "That snake oil you were deceived into buying isn't worth the price of the print on the label. Give her only what I direct you to give. Send one of the other servants if you do not believe yourself capable of the task."

"I will go, monsieur," she decided. "I should select material for new bed curtains, as well."

"Save that for another day. I can sleep in another room until the bedding is replaced. Have Rutherford drive you, but tend to Mademoiselle Daaé first. I wish daily to be apprised of her condition."

"Of course, Maestro."

Once she exited the library, he tried to focus on his slow-budding opera. But after blank minutes and without a piano to test the composition of notes, he put his fountain pen aside. He tried again to set his mind to estate affairs, deciding he must hire a new gardener worth his salt and absent of excuses, when there was a tap at the door.

"Enter."

He lifted his brows to see Madame Fairfax again so soon.

"Maestro, I fear something ails Mademoiselle Daaé."

"Explain yourself," he said, even as he rose to his feet and walked around the desk.

"She's contracted a fever. I cannot wake her. And I have none of the tea left for such ailments."

He waited to hear no more, taking the stairs to the second landing two at a time. At the threshold of the governess's room he did not hesitate to open the door and step into her private chamber. Even had he knocked, it would fail to matter. The slight figure that lay twisted in the sheets doubtless would not have responded. Perspiration shimmered as dewdrops on her face and neck. She lay on her back with her arms flung to her sides, the bandages thankfully intact despite her apparent thrashing. One light press of the back of his fingers to her cheek and forehead felt like he'd drawn too near a flame.

"Mademoiselle?" he queried and dropped a hand to her shoulder to jostle her gently. "Mademoiselle Daaé," he said a little louder to no avail.

"Monsieur?"

He swung around toward his housekeeper and noted she carried a fresh pitcher of water. "Put that down and leave for the village immediately. Select herbs to bring down the fever as well."

"We still have a bottle of elderberry wine. Best thing for a cold, which is likely what this is – what with her running about in the rain. Poor mite. I'll send Daniel to the cellar to fetch it."

While he wondered what the blazes the fool woman had been doing running about in the rain, Madame Fairfax placed the pitcher beside the empty basin, offering one empathetic glance toward the distraught girl in bed. "Shall I send up one of the maids to tend her, monsieur?"

His first inclination to accept fell to silence. "It isn't necessary. I will see to Mademoiselle Daaé's needs." From what little he observed of the female staff, barely past girlhood, they did not appear to have the aptitude or maturity to deal with the situation. To delegate their skills to dust his furniture was one thing, but to entrust the care of an ill and injured woman into their unschooled hands, he had grave misgiving.

Madame's eyes glinted with disapproval. "Monsieur, you cannot. It's hardly proper."

He snorted faintly in derision that she would believe he cared for such ethical inanities.

"We are well beyond that. I spent a goodly part of the late evening tending to her."

She frowned. "You will ruin her reputation, monsieur."

"You and I are the only ones to know, and after our talk, I trust you'll not spread tales that are harmful and untrue?" He ended the rhetorical question on a warning note. "Now go, before you further try my patience."

She seemed about to argue, but gave a taut nod and left the bedchamber.

Simmering with angry frustration, Erik shut the door none too softly. Despite his cavalier attitude toward scruples, he had no wish to be spied upon by any servant who should wander past, and fuel their abhorrent need for gossip. He had long been accustomed to rumors spread, here and in Paris, with regard to both his visible persona and his ghostly aura. It mattered not one whit to him what the meddlesome ingrates said. But for Christine, he wished no groundless repercussions to haunt her.

Erik poured water into the basin and doused the cloth, wringing it until his knuckles were bone-white, then perched on the side edge of the bed. Forcing any lingering resentment against all gossip-mongers aside, he gentled his touch as he dabbed the cool cloth over her pale, beaded brow and along one high flushed cheekbone.

Her coal-dark lashes did not once flicker. She lay still and silent as a wax doll, and with the heat that inflamed her skin he half-feared that if it were possible, she might melt like one.

"There now," he assured softly when she moaned as he lifted her arm to adjust the sleeve. Taking care not to jostle her linen-bound hand, he pushed the material of her bed gown past her elbow and slowly traced the cool wetness along the veins above her wrist where the bandage ended then up inside one arm. He retraced the path and did the same with her other arm.

She shivered as with a chill.

He hesitated, ill at ease, before softly dabbing her neck down to the square neckline of her gown, all the while trying to ignore the graceful twin mounds that gave shape to the ivory muslin. The irony of his circumstances being that despite his twenty-eight years, he had barely touched a woman, _any_ woman. His hand shook slightly as he drew the cool cloth along her collarbone. She stirred and he jolted in shock with her unexpected awakening. Eyes of lustrous midnight slowly flickered midway open. Swiftly he withdrew his wet touch from her bosom.

"Monsieur?" The inquiry came out a rasp, her expression wary. "Why are you here?" She barely turned her head on the pillow, as if to assure herself that it was indeed her room.

"You've contracted a fever," he explained. "I sent Madame Fairfax to the village to purchase what is needed."

An unnaturally bright film covered her eyes. "Have you been here long?"

At her hoarse whisper that sounded mildly terrified he stiffened and tersely nodded.

"If you would prefer I go…"

"No," she shook her head as though he misunderstood. "That's not why I ask. Did you…did you hear her?"

A frisson of unease crackled through every tendon of his body.

"To whom do you refer?"

"The woman," she croaked, attempting to prop herself on her elbows. She managed to lift herself a shaky fraction then groaned at the poor attempt and fell back in the pillow. Had she not needed complete rest, he might have extended his aid.

"There was a woman," Christine quietly insisted once she inhaled a deep breath. "She was weeping."

He kept his expression as bland as his mask. "I heard no woman, weeping or otherwise."

"But there was – I know! I heard her last night."

"You must have been dreaming, Miss Daaé. In your present condition it is not inconceivable that you are subject to hallucinations."

Faint troubled lines marred the space between her brows.

"There were other times," she argued. "The first night I had no fever. I _felt_ someone watching me..."

"You were wandering alone in the dark and almost run down by my horse. The shock of the incident no doubt scattered your sensibilities."

She frowned but thankfully said nothing more.

"I should see to your hands. If I may?"

She nodded and he turned her closest hand to reach the knot. Though he was careful with his ministrations, he did not fail to notice her wince more than once.

"I'm surprised that you were not burned as well," she said after a time.

He did not indulge her curiosity, the tone of her quiet words searching. He had earlier tended his own burns above his hip and to his arm, more a nuisance than a danger and not as fierce as her own. She had pulled the flaming blanket off of him before it could do lasting damage, and what was yet another scar among the multitude he carried? Long accustomed to pain, his grievance was a mere trifle and hardly worth discussion.

But her poor, small, once lily-white hands…

The extent of damage to them was expected, but he could not withhold a grimace of concern. Her palms and the insides of her fingers were badly blistered, the abused skin shiny and pink, damaged flesh raised like bubbles in the worst of places, which were thankfully scarce. The salve he used last night helped to ease the pain; the ingredients Madame Fairfax had left to collect would aid in healing the flesh.

He dipped the cloth in the basin of cold water and wrung it out lightly before touching it to her wounded appendages. She sucked in the edge of her lower lip with her teeth but bravely made no sound.

"How did you come to know all this?" she asked.

His lips turned down at the dismal recollection of the runaway child he'd been, later the solitary youth he'd become, finding and learning what was needful to care for his frequent injuries and rare illnesses. Piecemeal lessons scattered through time from observing the gypsies, later from poring over books of reference from the library of his former mentor, and especially from his own widespread and disturbing experiences….

"Through trial and error fashioned by necessity." At the curious worry that widened her eyes, his lips twisted in a dry smile. "Years of experience have honed my skills. I am well aware of what I'm doing. However, if you wish me to send for a physician, there is an old gentleman who lives in the village, with more than four decades of experience –"

"I trust you," she interrupted softly, and he was stunned at how his heart leapt by her undeserved show of good faith, making him that much more determined not to fail her.

It was unwise to become so involved with this woman; he told himself that truth daily. But it had become next to impossible to look into her dark, candid eyes and not wish for friendship, since he could ask for nothing more.

Once he tended to her other hand, he set the basin and cloth aside. "Is the pain any better?"

"Much the same as last night. The cold water helps some though."

He nodded, unsurprised there had been little change, and lightly bound her hands, keeping the bandages untied. "I must collect my box of medicines and apply more cream. Try not to move your hands while I'm gone."

xXx

Christine watched the back of his broad shoulders as the Maestro left the room. Lean but tall, his magnetizing presence had seemed to fill the entire chamber...while his absence created an unusual void of emptiness.

Christine turned her head on the pillow to stare at the closed curtains. Certainly the fever must be responsible for her wayward thought, and she remembered how her heart sprung to her parched throat when she opened her eyes and found the master of Thornfield sitting on the edge of her bed and dabbing above the loose neckline of her chemise with a cool, damp cloth. It was only a wad of bunched material that had caressed her skin, his fingers making no true contact. But he had touched her in an area no man touched before, tracing the cool dampness very near to the uppermost swells of her breasts scarcely covered by a thin drape of muslin…

She closed her eyes at the heated thought, both terrifying and titillating, but the anguish she suffered as she unconsciously moved quickly extinguished the daydream from her mind.

The pain was atrocious, leading her to believe she may never have the use of her hands again, despite his reassurances to the contrary. The heat of the fever singeing her flesh did nothing to help, but she'd bitten her tongue when she felt she might scream, not wishing to become even more of a nuisance.

Unaccustomed to overtures of concern, she didn't know what to think or how to react to the Maestro's keen attentions. During her pupil-hood at Lindenwood, the students had to be near death's door for the staff to take notice. Even during her time as a teacher they frowned upon "pampering a child's foolishness" should a student complain of illness or injury, always casting blame on the one affected… _she should have not gone out in the rain without her head covered_ , the headmistress once said of a girl miserable with the croup – _she should have been more careful holding the knife_ , said about a child who sliced her finger clean to the bone while peeling potatoes. Had Christine been at the orphanage, they might have tended the burns on her hands, but would never have allowed the privilege of complete quiet and bed rest – and certainly not a week's worth of what they considered the devil's idleness.

Such kindnesses were foreign to her, more so that they came from the dour Maestro she had once likened to the fearsome headless horseman of lore. To receive tenderness from him was unexpected, stirring something foreign in her heart, and she chided herself to cease thinking of him once and for all.

A reprieve came in the form of a small head that popped around the door.

"Mademoiselle?"

At the girl's uncertain query and hesitant step inside the chamber, Christine pressed all disturbing thoughts of her employer far to the back of her mind, hopefully to get lost in the crevices there. She forced a smile, determined not to let the perceptive child see her pain.

"Adrienne, come in…." She did not chastise her about knocking, since the Maestro left the door ajar. "I'm pleased that you came to visit me. Unfortunately we won't be having lessons this afternoon, but I expect you to keep up with your reading and needlework."

Adrienne mumbled something derogatory that Christine couldn't quite make out but suspected it had to do with her latter instruction. The girl's dark eyes suddenly brightened. "Might I use the library to select a book?"

"May I, and perhaps, with your nurse to accompany you. I will speak to the Maestro."

Adrienne half-skipped into the room, all apprehension evaporated. "He won't mind, as long as I go when he's not there seeing to everyone's complaints."

"Does that happen often?" Christine found herself asking.

"Only when he's been gone for long months at a time." Adrienne tilted her head in curiosity. "Why are your hands bound up like an Egyptian mummy?"

"I was careless," she hedged, doubting the Maestro wanted his ward told of the fire or that he'd been the target of a madwoman, for she was quite certain Hazel Bleue had a chief part to play in the near tragedy of last night.

"Did you know that they bind the body from head to foot with linen strips like those on your hands?" The girl's dark eyes shone with morbid delight. "First they use a hook to scoop out the brain through the nostrils…"

"Adrienne!" Christine reprimanded, wrinkling her nose at such a gruesome thought. "Wherever did you hear such a thing?"

"I read it in one of the Maestro's books on Ancient Egypt. They empty the corpse of its insides before they cover it with bandages. Why would they do that?"

"I haven't the faintest notion, nor is it something I wish to dwell on. It is hardly a fit subject for young ladies." Christine affected a stern teacher-like countenance, as foreboding as she could convey while lying under-dressed and helpless beneath a coverlet, with her arms resting useless atop the blanket. "When you find a book, bring it to me so that I might approve its suitability."

Her perusal of the library shelves earlier that week turned up a number of books she didn't deem appropriate for a lady to read, much less a ten-year-old child – and Adrienne's macabre introduction into mummification made that even clearer.

Her errant pupil lightly shrugged as if she couldn't understand the problem. Christine never thought of herself as squeamish until today, or perhaps her unsettled stomach was due to illness. No doubt her dash through the rainstorm brought on the fever and whatever else would come with it. How odd that both fire and water had induced her suffering.

"May I choose something by Shakespeare?"

"I don't see why not," Christine allowed, recalling the girl's penchant for the bard's works. "It would be beneficial for you to read aloud, to me. You may also bring your needlework so that I can supervise you."

"Must I?" the child groaned.

"Indeed. We should continue with your lessons in whatever manner presents itself, as it may be a while until I can truly be your teacher again."

Adrienne looked at her in confusion. "But - how much longer will you be in bed? I'm never sick for more than two days –"

"Adrienne…" At the deep voice of authority coming from the doorway, both Christine and the girl turned their heads. "Cease with your endless questions and allow Mademoiselle Daaé the peace she needs so that she may recover."

Adrienne lowered her eyes, crumpling like a pale pink rosebud cut off from sunlight.

"Yes, Maestro."

"I don't mind," Christine intervened, her well-intentioned desire to speak up on behalf of the girl dying on her lips at the dual flames of warning that shot from the Maestro's eyes.

"You are ill and must _rest."_

She did not think it wise to argue with the child present, so only gave a taut nod against the pillow, her aggravation at his curt attitude toward the child restoring in her a strange rush of energy.

"Adrienne, is it not time for luncheon with your nurse?"

His tight inquiry came across as a demand. The girl looked back at Christine, who gave a smile of reassurance. "I shall see you later," she said, reminding the girl of her assignment. She looked at her employer. "I trust it is alright for Adrienne to visit the library to collect a book?"

He narrowed his eyes in suspicion, as though trying to find the hidden reason for such a question, but looked toward the child. "Touch nothing on my desk."

At his stern directive, the girl nodded, then shook her head as if confused with how to respond. "I won't. _Buon pomeriggio_." She performed a small curtsy as though exiting a stage and flitted off in her cream and pink dress.

Once the girl was out of earshot, the Maestro turned his agitation on Christine.

"You should not be taxing your energy," he reprimanded.

"I don't intend to tire myself, and will rest as needed," she defended her decision. "Really, I welcome Adrienne's company."

"I have no wish for her to learn the events of last night."

"No, of course not – I suspected that." She shook her head against the pillow in frustration, her mind trapped in a filmy haze. On a good day, with Adrienne, she felt in charge, but in this domineering man's presence, she felt uncertain. Yet a lifetime of defending herself against unjust claims, (often causing her more distress than if she had just stayed silent), recklessly pushed her to say, "I would never cross the line to go against your will. I may speak my mind, but I know my place."

"Yet you would test my will and ignore my orders?"

"Pardon?" She felt genuinely confused by his mild rebuke.

Beneath the mask, his mouth was grim, though his eyes strangely gleamed. She wished she could see more of his expression to discern his current mood. He did not appear foreboding; neither did he seem congenial. Though he did seem… _eager_ to continue their discussion.

"Have you so soon forgotten my directive to dispense with Adrienne's lessons until you are recovered?"

"Oh – but I wouldn't be instructing her, not really." She inhaled a slow breath to give herself a moment to think more clearly, so as to ably state her case. "I intended only that she read aloud and practice needlework in my company. If an opportunity arises that I should need to correct her, I can easily do so from this bed."

As she spoke he readied his implements – bandages, cream, water. He brought the stool at her dressing table near the bed and took a seat, leaning forward.

"You are one bloody obstinate woman. Have you forgotten that I'm _your_ employer and you are to follow _my_ instruction?"

The mild chastisement might have concerned her that she had indeed overstepped the mark, but his gentle touch as he took her hand to treat it thoroughly rattled rational thought and she blurted her defense, "I wouldn't take on more than I'm capable of; I know my limits. That is…" She felt a sheepish sort of embarrassment at her audacity, "If you should grant me permission."

He snorted softly what came very near to a chuckle, and the sudden thought struck her of what his true laugh might sound like. His eyes seared her in gold before he smoothed the cooling cream against her palm. She gave a little shiver as his rough fingertips ghosted ravaged skin, with no cloth this time to trace the wet path. His careful touch caused no increased pain, but rather a wave of something that made her heart shimmer with warmth. Or perhaps it was the fever …

"And if I should refuse?" he asked nonchalantly, spreading cream along her other palm.

She exhaled a faint sigh. "I would abide by your decision, of course. But I implore you to reconsider. It would actually be helpful to me, a way to cut through the boredom that will no doubt visit if I'm confined to this bed longer than a day. I cannot draw or paint. I cannot even hold a book to read for my own pleasure…"

Christine was unaccustomed to a life of leisure and couldn't imagine lying here, feverish or not, with no company and nothing to do for the week he had ordered. She craved projects to keep her mind and hands occupied, though the latter would have to wait. She cast a disparaging glance to her appendages that had betrayed her. She should have been more careful, instead acting in haste and tearing away the fiery ribbons of material in reckless confusion. The sight of the monstrous fire eating its way toward the Maestro had terrified her, and she thanked heaven that he had not also been burned.

He studied Christine a moment before unrolling a bandage and loosely winding it around her hand. "We will revisit the possibility once your fever has subsided. Until then you must rest so that you may recover. "

"Yes, alright." She was weary of hearing his mantra and watched as he finished with one hand, knotting the bandage, then proceeded to the next. Again the peculiarity struck her of the Master of Thornfield waiting on her, literally hand and foot. She chuckled slightly at her absurd pun, earning her a swift glance from her self-appointed physician, who then moved to the end of the bed to untie the bandage from her sole and check the wound there.

More cream, another bandage, and he finished his treatment, packing his supplies back into his wooden box.

"If you wouldn't mind…" She hesitated a bit nervously when he turned the full power of his riveting eyes her way. "I should like a drink of water."

He replied with a curt nod and poured a serving from the pitcher on the bedside table, again sitting beside her on the coverlet to hold the glass to her lips. His every graceful action came with studied precision. He pulled the glass away, and a thin stream ran down the corner of her mouth. The sudden brush of his thumb along her chin to catch the moisture, with two of his fingertips lightly cradling her jaw stunned them both. The manner in which his eyes lifted and held with hers left her without breath.

He stood to his feet with a swiftness that made her dizzy. "Madame Fairfax will soon return with herbs for a tea to eliminate the fever. You are to drink every drop. I will instruct her on how to care for your other injuries as well."

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if he would not continue to visit and care for her, but Christine bit back the question, giving a nod to his order. "Thank you, monsieur. For all you have done for me. I apologize for being such a burden."

As she spoke, he turned a key in his wooden box and pocketed it. He looked at her in mild surprise. "If I hear one more unwarranted apology from you, I may wring your silly neck. You are not a burden, Mademoiselle, far from it."

His rush of words again seemed to surprise him as much as they did her, that, and the gentle tone with which he delivered them.

Immediately he turned, box in hand, and headed for the door. "Madame Fairfax will bring you a tonic upon her return."

Christine made no mention that he had already given that information, feeling that perhaps he didn't know what he said. He seemed…flustered.

But no more than she.

The afternoon passed in a fitful sleep, Christine awakening when a glass of wine was brought to her. Madame Fairfax held the glass for her to sip, bringing to mind the memory of the Maestro in her place, doing the same, his hand gentle against her heated face and causing it to tingle…

She spluttered and coughed and Madame swiftly pulled away the glass.

"Easy now, dear, don't drink it so fast."

Christine shook her head as a sign that she wanted no more of the bitter brew when the housekeeper brought the glass to her lips a second time.

"Enough then? Alright." She set the wine on the bedside table and stood. "The tea is brewing. A maid will bring it up soon."

Over the next hour, her fever peaked, Christine drifting in and out of slumber, awakened only when Madame Fairfax or a maid brought her an herbal remedy to drink. Adrienne appeared at some point, book in hand, and Christine barely cast a glance at the embossed cover with fever-blurred eyes.

 _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ wasn't a title with which she was familiar. Yet with what she did know of Shakespeare's works, she felt no hesitation to agree. Unfortunately, her fever-laden brain couldn't make sense of too many words strung together. She wished only for sleep and instructed the girl to read on her own.

Adrienne left in an excited blur of pink, and Christine turned her face as far into the pillow as possible while still lying on her back...allowing hazy dreams to take her to a shadowed realm and down winding stairs to a landing…

Where a man in a mask looked up with eyes of shining gold and awaited her.

 **xXx**

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 **A/N: Things are about to take an exciting little twist, starting with the next chapter… ;-)**  
 ** _(*Buon pomeriggio - good afternoon)  
_**


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Thank you so much for your interest and the reviews! :) As most of my blended tales of classics with PotO do - the foundation of plot follows both stories - and becomes my own creation as well - this is one of those (many) times. And now...  
**

* * *

 **XII**

Two days slipped by without Christine's full awareness. She slept the majority of the time, waking only to take the remedial tea or sip a broth the new kitchen maid brought up or have Madame Fairfax tend her wounds. Adrienne poked her head in now and then, sometimes with a fount of excited words involving whatever latest fancy had taken hold of the child...sometimes only to stare, as Christine twice noted through barely-slit eyes.

The Master did not once make an appearance.

On the third day, her fever decreased to the point that she could make better sense of the world around her. She told Adrienne to bring in her needlework, and an hour passed punctuated with her pupil's grumbling and disgruntled short stabs into cloth with a needle. Now and then such actions were followed by a sharp little cry or a coarse muttered word unfit for a lady, much less a child, when said needle found its way into the tip of a finger. No matter that Christine cautioned her not to wield the needle so fiercely, and certainly never to swear so unbecomingly, Adrienne continued her vengeful attacks upon the helpless strip of woven cloth.

The girl let out a particularly emphatic yelp, sticking her fingertip in her mouth to suck away a bead of blood, and Christine sighed.

"We should move to your reading lesson. Did you select a book from the library?"

Adrienne lifted her head and pulled her finger from her mouth, a shine to her eyes. "Si, er, um _oui,_ mademoiselle. I told you that day."

Christine barely recalled any of it. Adrienne tucked the needle safely between the weave and dumped her sewing to the floor. Christine held her tongue at the child's untidy eagerness to be rid of her needlework and watched as she retrieved and opened the book on her lap.

Christine had not heard this story from its beginning, but soon picked up the thread of a king of fairies named Oberon, his impish cohort, and their devilish manipulations into four peoples' lives, causing no end to jealousy, misunderstanding and pain. Their cruel maneuverings of others to force men and women to desert their true loves and join with others in unholy union was truly despicable. The undertones of prose made it clear that their spell involved the corporeal and Christine blushed to think it. For a girl of Adrienne's scant years, the context might not be entirely discernible, hopefully not.

"Perhaps this isn't a book suitable for a young girl to read," Christine interjected when Adrienne paused between sections of Act 3 to take a breath.

"Oh, no – it's alright – the Maestro said," Adrienne coaxed desperately. "I only have a short amount of pages left – see?" The girl fanned the pages with her thumb, riffling them and letting them fall into place. "It's Shakespeare – _you said_ Shakespeare was alright, and I do like the story so well."

Christine reflected. The Master allowed a story of this nature for his ward? She promised him she would not cross him in his orders, but was he fully aware of the contents of this book? Romeo and Juliet had been tame in comparison, but held a moralistic message; perhaps this one would as well.

"I should speak with the Maestro regardless."

Adrienne gave a careless shrug, though the shine of excitement left her eyes.

"The Maestro isn't here."

"When he returns, then."

Adrienne gave a full-on pout. "Why must I wait months to read such few pages?"

Much more than a few, but _months_? "What are you saying, Adrienne? Why should you need to wait so long?"

"That is how it always is when the Maestro leaves. He stays away _an eternity_!"

"The Maestro went away?" Christine detested the little hitch in her voice upon hearing the news.

Adrienne solemnly nodded. "He rode away on Cesar this morning. He never stays at Thornfield for long. I don't think he likes it here."

"Perhaps he only has business to attend in the village."

"No, Madame Fairfax said he's gone to Paris. _Again."_ The child sighed. "He left this morning, before dawn."

Christine stared somberly at the blue fibers of the blanket that covered her stomach. He had left without telling her, without checking on her one last time or even saying goodbye?

True, there was no actual relationship between them that necessitated such kindnesses. But after the fire, there had been a bond of intimacy, of budding friendship – perhaps audacious of her to think it, since she was only the governess. But she had felt a new ease of rapport between them, even in their differences, and when he held her in his arms…there had been more.

Such feelings must not have been mutual. She was foolish to think that he'd felt as she had, though she was still unclear as to _what_ it was she felt exactly. With no doctor to send for, she had fully relied on his skills in medicine. She supposed she should feel comforted that at least he waited until her fever broke and had not left her so ill, but could not fathom why he would not inform her of his decision to leave Thornfield or at the very least say goodbye...

Christine clenched her teeth at her foolish fancy. God, what was she thinking? Why should his decision to go even _matter_ to her or cause this strange dull ache inside her heart?

"Please let me finish the story," Adrienne said. "I won't read aloud anymore, if you don't wish me to."

"No, no…" Christine might regret giving permission, but the depraved topic had already been introduced, and surely there must be some worthwhile moral involved by the tale's end. "I will _think_ on it. Leave the book here. It is time for luncheon with your nurse."

Adrienne frowned but did as told, and brought the book to Christine.

Once she left, Christine again rested. Later that evening, with nothing to do, she propped the book on a pillow and read from the beginning, awkwardly turning pages with the fingertips of her bandaged hand.

It was as she feared, the worst tenets of the tale already addressed. The ending at least offered some manner of righteous instruction on the dual snares of pride and envy, slight though the moral was. She felt it important for Adrienne to hear the tale's conclusion, with Oberon's confession to his queen, now that the damage had been done due to Christine's unintended failure in her role as teacher.

 _Lord, what fools these mortals be!_

The line from Puck crossed Christine's mind as she closed the book, noting that through the mullioned window pane, darkness spread across the sky to gather the shadows into early evening. _She was_ a fool, to err with ignorance regarding Adrienne's lesson, no matter that the fever was the true villain here, but more than that, to allow her heart any amount of offense at the Maestro's silent and swift departure.

To care at all.

She was no more than a glorified servant hired to teach his ward; he was the master of the manor and owed her nothing. She must not be so quick to forget that, and certainly must not pass forbidden boundaries...even if only in her mind.

xXx

Once Erik tended to his first order of business in Paris – finding the theatre in a state of mild panic – he left the pathetic fools who called themselves managers and the bumbling stagehands to deal with the chaotic mess. It was hardly surprising on whom they placed blame - did they not call "foul" and "ghost" with every issue and accident the theatre faced? What irked him was that, in this instance, they were most decidedly wrong. It was their own incompetence that led to what could have evolved into an error of catastrophic proportions.

Sweeping through the city, he hunted down the one man who could alter his unfortunate state of affairs. He despised dealing with arrogant men of such questionable ilk, but had no choice.

He found the locale, noting the brass plate and engraved name, and sneered before opening the door. Had the Daroga not made the recommendation, urging him to act, he would not be here now. He preferred to socialize, with those who knew him, as a rare occurrence; with strangers and fools he preferred not to speak at all. Yet after the fiasco with the fire of days ago, which could have damned well ended in tragedy and _had_ caused grievous injury, he felt he no longer had a choice.

A mousy little bookkeeper looked up from penning information into a ledger. Stranger or Fool had yet to be determined.

"Monsieur, may I help you?" He blinked and squinted over his half-moon spectacles as if he could detect the outline of the flesh-colored mask in the low light. Rather than remove his fedora, Erik pulled the brim lower to better shield his face.

"I am here to see Monsieur Marisat." He noticed the closed door beyond the man's cluttered work area. "I assume he is alone?" At this late hour, minutes before closing their office for the day, it was unlikely his employer had a client.

"Yes – that is, I mean – what is the nature of your business, monsieur?" the bookkeeper sputtered, stuffing papers into a crowded pigeonhole of his cluttered desk.

A Fool, then.

"That is exclusively for Monsieur Marisat to hear. No need to announce me; I will announce myself."

"Monsieur, you cannot go in there –"

Erik paid the little man no heed, turning the knob and entering the room, afterward swiftly closing the door behind him.

From behind a desk just as cluttered, a pudgy man with heavy sideburns extending nearly to his chin puffed on the stem of a pipe. He sat, absent of his frock coat, with his tie askew at the throat of his high collar, looking as if he had endured a long and trying day.

Erik was about to make it even more vexing.

"Do I know you, monsieur? Have we business at this late hour?" Monsieur Marisat stood to pull his frock coat from a hook on the wall and shrugged into it, likely in a feeble attempt to make himself look more professional. But, contrary to his rigid nature on such matters, Erik cared not for sterling appearances at this moment, only that this man possessed the clever intelligence for which he was fabled.

"I am in need of your services. An acquaintance, Nadir Khan, recommended you."

The man sighed, as if weary to hear what had become mundane with regard to his line of work. He did a mild double take when he turned fully to face Erik and saw the mask gleam dully from beneath the fedora, but quickly recovered. At this close proximity, and with the gas lamp nearby as illumination, lines would be seen. "Of course, monsieur. I would be happy to assist you, if I am able. However, the hour is late, and I'm expected elsewhere. If you will make an appointment with my secretary…."

As Marisat made his pedestrian excuses, Erik withdrew a thick bundle of francs and laid them on the desk before the man, whose words trailed off at the exorbitant sight. "I can pay well for your services, but will not be deferred. This matter is of the utmost urgency and requires absolute discretion for the sake of all involved. You are reputed to be the best in your vocation. However, if you cannot spare these few minutes to speak with me…" Here his words mocked, "I shall take my business elsewhere."

Monsieur Marisat tore his eyes away from the stack of bills. "Please, have a seat, monsieur. No more than a mundane dinner party my wife insisted I attend. It can wait." He motioned to the chair and took a seat behind his desk. "Now, how may I be of service to you?"

Perhaps, this man was no true fool, despite his first impression of slothful arrogance. Erik's options for stellar counsel were slim to none, and the Daroga wouldn't dare send him astray. The former chief of the Persian police was intelligent enough to know how vital this was to Erik and would not have made such a recommendation carelessly...

With a grimace of a smile, having successfully baited the rat with a tempting morsel of expensive cheese, Erik pulled a thin sheaf of papers from his satchel and handed them across the desk.

"I require this farce to end."

xXx

The days slowly melded, one into another. Able to riffle through a book's pages, Christine passed the time reading those novels she asked Adrienne to bring her from the library.

After more than a week of detestable bed rest, Christine felt able to resume her regular activities. The burn on her foot had healed well enough that she could wear a stocking over the bandage, and though she winced a bit to shrug into her low-heeled shoe, she could walk for short distances at a time.

Her hands had been aided greatly by the Maestro's mysterious salve, though in all likelihood she would bear scars. She wrinkled her nose at the pink, shiny patches of healing flesh and after dousing them with another heaping dose of the cream, tugged on white linen gloves for protection. The skin of her palms and fingers felt tight and itched dreadfully, another good reason to encase her hands in soft material. Unfortunately, she couldn't bend her fingers well enough to use the many pins to sweep up her hair in an appropriate manner, but managed to pull back her thick twists of curls and tie them with a black velvet ribbon.

She cast a disparaging glance at the odd sight she made. The image of the white go-to-meeting gloves with her plain dark frock looked absurd, and the girlish style of her hair that rippled to her lower back made her appear even younger and less like a capable governess. But there was little to be done about it, and any scrap of vain unease could simply not be entertained.

At least only Adrienne and the household staff would see. The shy new maid had served broths and tea during her convalescence, the former maid having left the Maestro's employ to marry. Lynette was now the only member of staff serving under Madame Fairfax to speak freely to her, when her timidity allowed it, the others still clearly upset to have their rooms searched after the theft.

Christine supposed it scarcely mattered what she wore or how ridiculous she looked, and she held her head high as she descended the wide stairs to take luncheon with Madame Fairfax. Carefully she gripped the polished banister, still feeling somewhat unsteady. Not wishing to snag the low heel of her slipper against the carpeted runner, her steps came slower than usual. More than halfway down, the knocker sounded at the front door.

She came to a stop mid-staircase and paused, uncertain if she should continue her descent to the main floor or retrace her steps up to her bedchamber. With the master no longer in attendance, surely the caller would be turned away.

The footman, Gregory, strode into view from somewhere within the manor and opened the front door. A brief discussion with the guest ensued – guests – as two women suddenly strode into the foyer as if they belonged there. The first visitor, Christine noted, was an attractive woman in her mid-forties, her black reeds proclaiming her to be a widow. She pulled away a scarf equally as black, displaying hair wrapped in thick braids around her head. She scanned the room, her eyes an alert bright blue, hawk-like, as if they didn't miss a thing.

The second woman was twice as young, the similarities of features and pale shade of hair suggesting a familial bond, though the young woman's sleek locks were fair, shades lighter than the older woman's brown braids. There was something about the graceful young woman that struck a mild chord of intrigue, and Christine stared, intent in her curiosity, unable to look away. Their manner of traveling attire was hardly extravagant, but neither was it worn or threadbare. They were not of the noblesse, here to pay a social call to the master; nor were they poverty-stricken, out seeking charity.

As the footman took the strangers' cloaks, Christine's silent presence was at last recognized.

"Hello," the younger woman said with an engaging smile as she moved toward the stairs and tilted her head upward. "Are you a member of the Maestro's family? He didn't tell us he had any relations."

"Meg!" the older woman softly chastised and she, too, stepped forward. "Forgive my daughter's wayward behavior. I am Madame Giry. We are here by invitation of the Maestro. He neglected to tell me that he had family staying at Thornfield; I do hope our presence won't be an imposition."

Christine awkwardly cleared her throat, noting the wayward daughter stared just as hard at her as she had formerly done. "You are mistaken, Madame. I am only the governess."

"I see."

"Governess…?" The young woman echoed in stunned curiosity. "The Maestro has a _child?_ Why would he not have said a word of it when he told us to come?"

"Meg - enough," Madame Giry chastised softly.

"Adrienne is his ward," Christine said as she resumed her slow pace down the stairs to face them. "Madame nodded as if aware of the fact, though her daughter continued to stare in complete bewilderment. "I am Mademoiselle Daaé. You should speak with Madame Fairfax, the housekeeper here. She will show you to your rooms. I can get her, if you like."

"Yes, thank you." Madame nodded her gratitude.

"Daaé," the younger woman softly parroted, as if trying to put together a puzzle. "Daaé…" Suddenly her eyes widened in disbelief. "Not _Christine_ Daaé?"

Hearing her name spoken with such familiarity and shock caused a shiver of strange expectancy to tingle down Christine's spine.

"Yes, that's my name."

Whatever else she might have said was lost in a girlish squeal of delight as the young woman clapped her gloved hands together and elegantly rushed to the foot of the stairs in a swirl of blue cape and skirts, as if in a ballet.

"Oh, Christine – it's _me_ – it's Meg!"

"Meg," Christine repeated before she fully understood. Her own eyes widened. _"Meggie?"_

"Yes," the lovely woman said with a sweet laugh, and suddenly Christine found herself enfolded in two slender arms that held her tight. "Oh, my dear, sweet friend, how I have missed you!"

Her words broke through the fog of lingering doubt, and Christine swiftly lifted her arms to enfold her old friend in an embrace just as strong, the faded memory of that long ago winter's day when Meggie was so suddenly taken from the orphanage coming vividly to mind.

"Oh, Meggie - mon ami - I can scarcely believe it's really you!"

"Well, believe it!" she said with a tearful little laugh, "though it's just Meg now. The change is more dignified and less childish. Don't you agree?"

Their light giggles made clear all infantile girlishness had not eroded with the passage of time, and as they hugged each other it was as if the great span of years in between instantly fell away. Christine was again an outcast child sitting on a hard cot in a cold room, with little Meg holding her in reassurance. They broke apart, each of them smiling and wiping the dampness from their eyes with gloved fingers.

Meg was hardly little any longer, now in possession of a lush, womanly figure a good deal more curvaceous than Christine's slender frame. She still stood shorter than Christine, that had not changed, but Christine had always been tall for her age.

Her friend turned to the other woman who came up beside her. "This is my mother – but you already knew that, since she just introduced us." Meg laughed in giddy embarrassment, and Christine realized just how much she had missed her effervescent friend.

"Do calm down, my dear," Madame softly instructed. "It is a pleasure to meet you," she said to Christine. "I have heard a great deal about you."

At the surprised lift of Christine's brows, Meg spoke. "I wrote you in the year after I left, but when you never wrote back, I thought you must not have received my letter."

"No, I never did," Christine replied grimly, a bit stunned to learn of the missive, but not surprised to hear the staff at Lindenwood had denied her the privilege.

"But, have we caught you at an inopportune time? Were you about to leave?" Meg glanced down Christine's gloves. "I hope we aren't detaining you from your plans."

"Oh this?" Christine lifted her hands, looking down at them with a grimace. "No. I was just going to have luncheon. You must both join me." She smiled at Madame Giry, extending the invitation to her as well. "I'll ask a maid to serve us in the parlor. You must both be weary from your travels. Did the stagecoach bring you here the entire way, or were you forced to walk?"

"Oh, no – a driver came to collect us at the inn, as the Maestro instructed." Meg gave another overt glance to Christine's white-clothed hands then, as if she understood her distress, linked her arm with Christine's as they walked toward the parlor. Madame silently followed.

"It's just so incredible to find you here –"

"How do you know the Maestro –?"

Each of them laughed as they both spoke at once, and Meg gave a little shrug.

"He's a patron at the opera house where Maman and I work. A secret patron." Meg grinned. "Only Maman and I know of it, really, and I learned quite by accident."

The revelation did not surprise Christine, musical genius that she had discovered him to be, but Meg's news made her smile. "You work at an opera house?"

"Yes – can you believe it? I'm a dancer in the chorus!" Meg squeezed her arm excitedly. "Though, sad to say, I'm temporarily without work. The theatre is closed for repairs, you see – which is why we're here. And I'm so grateful that Maman accepted his invitation!" Meg gave her another squeeze. "I wasn't sure at first, to stay here, in his home – but to find you is certainly a gift."

"And the Maestro?" Christine wished to curb the telltale words, but they streamed from her lips without thought. "Did he not come with you?"

"He remained behind in Paris. He has other business there, so he told Maman. But he said that we must come stay at Thornfield for a visit, and with little else to do, Maman naturally agreed."

Christine's dismay to hear that the Maestro would not be joining them dissipated somewhat in the brightness of Meg's smile and the joy of being reunited with her bosom friend.

Arm in arm, the two entered the parlor, eager to catch up on the missing years and reacquaint one another with their lives.

Meg suddenly pulled back and looked down in concern. "Why, Christine – you're limping! Are you hurt? Is that also why you're wearing those gloves?"

"It's a rather involved story…" Christine deferred, hesitant with what to say. She wished to remain loyal to her employer, but if Meg and her mother were staying at the chateau, did they not have a right to know that a thief was still lurking about the premises?

"It started late one night, when I heard strange sounds outside my room. There was a fire," she began. "It was contained to one of the bedchambers -"

"A fire?" Meg exclaimed, cutting her off with blue eyes round in astonishment. "But - that is exactly what brought us here!"

xXx

* * *

 **A/N: I have really looked forward to bringing these two back together. A little more of the mystery will be unveiled soon…**

 **Until next time - :)  
**


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews! :) Love seeing where you guys are with this...we shall see... (heh heh heh)-  
**

* * *

 **Chapter XIII**

.

"There was a fire at the Opera House?" Christine asked in surprise.

"A small fire, quickly contained before it could spread. But even a tiny dragon can inflict damage – it caught on the stage curtain used as a backdrop and destroyed some of the most important props and settings. No one was hurt, but it set the next production back a few weeks. It's not the first fire we've had - too many open flames about, though there are rules about untended candles, but no one really listens..."

They came to the parlor door and Christine led the way inside, gratefully sinking to the sofa, her foot beginning to throb. Normally, she would search for and instruct one of the servants to tend to the Maestro's guests, but she didn't think she could manage at the moment. Picking up a hand bell, she rang it.

Dorothea, one of the downstairs maids, hurried inside. She looked with surprise to see the Girys, then regarded Christine with mild affront, clearly not happy to come to the beck and call of the governess. Though Christine had good reason to suspect such rudeness had more to do with her accusation and not her station. She had never singled out any of the household staff in the theft of her mirror, but it failed to matter since all had been treated equally in suspicion, with their rooms searched.

"We will be taking luncheon in here," Christine said. "Please inform Madame Fairfax."

"As you wish." Dorothea's words came haughty. She spun on her heel and left the room

Though in her role Christine was well within her right to give instruction, especially when in Adrienne's company, Dorothea perhaps thought the Girys only _her_ guests and felt Christine was misappropriating her authority.

"What is her problem?" Meg said in disgust.

"It is nothing," Christine brushed it off. "Tell me more about your life at the Opera House. It must be so exciting! Certainly a dream come true for you."

"It is - and these past three years have been even more exciting than usual." Her eyes glimmered mysteriously in fun.

"With talk of fires, I can see why!"

"Oh, that - the stagehands' carelessness started this fire, no doubt. They're always passing around a bottle and staggering around from too much drink. The owners weren't ruined, but the cost will no doubt be steep to replace what was lost. And they're losing revenue with having to begin the season a month later than planned. Of course, the Opera Ghost sent a note ordering the management to dismiss those responsible, though there are whispered rumors that he started the fire."

"The _Opera Ghost_?" Christine asked curiously, thinking perhaps the odd moniker was theatre talk for the owner of the musical establishment. But why should he wish to set fire to his own building?

"That is how he signs all his notes –O.G. for short. No one has seen him well, though some have spotted him from a great distance, up in the flies - but only his face appears to float in darkness. Those few who have seen him say it is bone white, like a ghost. Some say he has no body and believe him to be a _true_ ghost - the Phantom of the Opera haunting our theatre. But a ghost can't write notes, can he? And he would have to have hands to pen them, so he must have a body. Don't you agree?"

"I wouldn't know," Christine replied, having no idea how to respond to such a bizarre revelation. Their words brought to mind her frightful encounter with the Maestro on the road to Thornfield that the dark night. From a distance, she'd thought _him_ a phantom rider, similar to the headless horseman of lore. But of course, ghosts didn't exist.

"Meg – really you surprise me," Madame Giry scolded in mild exasperation. "You know better than to listen to the theatre scuttlebutt."

"I meant no harm, Maman." Meg sighed in dissatisfaction. "It's just such a mystery, and so intriguing. It's not like he's anywhere near to hear me." She turned in an aside to Christine. "There is an unspoken rule in the theatre for prudent silence, as Maman calls it – we must always be careful of what we say, since he knows and hears everything…"

"Meg."

She was saved another scolding from her mother as the door opened to admit two servants with luncheon. A platter with tea things was set down before Christine, a plate of mini sandwiches with creamed meat fillings beside that, along with a stand with a plate atop that held a small array of iced cakes. Once the servants left, Meg ignored the sandwiches and picked up one of the sweets, taking a bite.

"Ooo- these are lovely."

"They're called trifles," Christine supplied, while pouring and handing each of the women a cup of tea, lastly preparing one for herself. "A British dessert that comes from Monsieur Rochester's roots. The housekeeper and a few others on staff are from England, where his grandparents lived before coming to France."

"Such a bland name for such a sweet dessert," Meg gave her critical assessment. "And what is he like – your Mr. Rochester?" she asked in the same breath. Christine felt a flush of warmth at her intimate phrasing. "Is he as mysterious as he's purported to be?"

"Mysterious?" He was, but how could Meg know? Christine took a sip of her tea to smooth the lump that was fast forming in her throat.

"He takes his secret patronage very seriously. Few have seen him. Like the Phantom of the Opera, he maintains distance, and only on the rare occasion will he make his presence known. Usually to Maman and the managers, though I've seen him once, quite by accident. He was leaving Maman's office as I was entering. He nodded in greeting though he was distant and seemed a bit upset to be found. Rather strange really. But I found him quite compelling." She sat back against the sofa and regarded Christine. "So what is he like from someone who sees him _every day_? Do you get along well?"

"I think," Madame softly reprimanded, "A change of subject would be wise."

Meg gave a lovely pout. "But is it not natural to be curious about our host...? Oh, very well. I'll not speak of him." She again turned to Christine. "Now you must tell me, _mon ami_ , how you came by such injuries. Were you burned in the fire you mentioned?"

Over luncheon, Christine carefully shared what she felt would be permissible of the arson she related as an accident, also eliminating the fact that the source of the fire was the master's bedchamber and neither of them had been sufficiently dressed. She did, however, bend loyalty's constraints to share the reason she felt it so important to saunter through empty corridors in the dead of night. They deserved to know at least that much if they were to be guests here.

"A thief?" Meg intoned. "Well, it's a good thing I didn't bring anything of value to covet."

"I am certain the Maestro has everything under control," Madame offered, setting down her cup and saucer.

Perhaps Christine might be more inclined to believe that if the Maestro wasn't so quick to abandon Thornfield without just cause.

"If you'll excuse me, I should like to go upstairs and rest," Madame Giry said. "These last two days have been most tiresome." She gracefully stood to her feet. "I will see you both at dinner."

"Of course. One of the maids will show you the way to your room, Madame. At this time of the day, you'll find them dusting the downstairs chambers." Christine reconsidered. "Or, if you prefer, I can find a servant for you."

"Do not trouble yourself, Mademoiselle Daaé," she said kindly. "I can find my way."

"Please, call me Christine."

Madame Giry left with an acquiescent nod and Christine lifted her teacup to her lips. Meg turned to her, putting a hand to Christine's shoulder, a gleam in her bright blue eyes.

"Now, you must tell me, what exactly is going on between you and the Maestro?"

Christine nearly choked on her sipped tea, setting it down hastily on the saucer. She lightly cleared her throat and patted it, wishing to dispel with the uncomfortable lump too. "What a question! Nothing, of course. Why should you think it?"

"You may have been the most courageous girl at Lindenwood, standing up to our supposed betters at the most nerve-wracking of times, but you could never bluff your way out of a tight spot, Christine. You still have the tendency to blush when you're flustered, and your eyes have always been the windows to every feeling unexpressed. Whenever mention is made of the Maestro, you become more animated, and don't you dare deny it."

Christine cursed the telling warmth that rose to her cheeks.

"There – you see?" Meg laughed. "You're doing it again!"

"Nonsense – how you do go on. He's my employer, and that is _all_ he is." Christine swiftly changed topic before her body could betray her with any other telltale signs of interest. "Now, you must tell me everything that's happened in your life, starting with the day you left mine. You thought you were an orphan, like me, and your parents died in a carriage accident. What happened, Meggie…um, Meg?"

Her friend smiled. "It's alright. It takes some getting used to – just as it does to realize that you're really sitting here beside me!" She laid her hand over Christine's gloved one. "Though once I saw that long abundance of glorious curls – I knew in my heart I'd found you. I'm happy to see you grew your hair out again."

Christine pulled a self-conscious hand through one strand of ringlets near her ear. "Not exactly suitable for a governess though," she mused.

"Oh, who cares? You look lovely, and you're not breaking any laws. So, when do I meet your little pupil?"

"She's having luncheon with her nurse. Normally, we would have lessons at this hour, but this is the first day I've left my bed. You'll meet her after dinner. She dines with her nurse, and I generally take my meal with Madame Fairfax. Her table is rather small," she said by way of apology, "but you and your mother will want to eat in the dining room regardless. I can address a maid to set you places there."

Meg looked at Christine as if she'd just told the most absurd witticism. "Don't be ridiculous. You'll dine with us, yes?"

"It's not my place to sit at the dining table."

"Not _your place_? What folderol!" Meg shook her head in disgust. "Well, then I shall sup with you and Madame Fairfax, and I'm sure Maman would agree."

"It is rather crowded," Christine deferred, thinking of the table that barely gave room for two once all the dishes were placed upon it.

"You don't wish to eat with me?" Meg asked, with a tinge of hurt uncertainty.

"Heaven's no - it's not that. The dining room is more befitting of the Maestro's guests, more splendidly appointed, and I assumed you and your mother would prefer to eat there."

Meg laughed at that. "Christine – I'm a dancer in the _chorus_. I'm not some toffee-nosed diva who insists on eating off the best china with gold utensils and a spotless tablecloth. Hobnobbing elbow to elbow and drinking out of wooden tankards suits me perfectly fine."

Christine grinned in relief that the years hadn't stolen everything away and Meg still seemed like Meg.

"Well, it's not quite _that_ relaxed. We _do_ have a tablecloth." She giggled and her friend joined in. "I'll inform Madame Fairfax to expect two more for supper." She shook her head fondly. "You haven't changed a bit, Meggie. Well, obviously you have – but you still have such a blithe spirit about you. You are all that got me through those first horrible years at Lindenwood."

Meg sobered and nodded. "Was it too terribly bad after I left? I wanted to tell you goodbye, but Madame Dartmeir wouldn't allow it. She herded me out the door as soon as I collected my things."

"I got along," Christine said with a grimace. "There was a terrible sickness that struck and took more than half the children. For whatever reason, I was spared, as well as a handful of others. That epidemic brought about stringent reforms, so I suppose something good came from it, including three square meals a day. Remember when most days all we had was a bowlful of cold porridge, and bread with butter on a Sunday, if we were lucky?" Christine crinkled her nose at the bleak memory. "But enough of that - tell me, what happened with you, that is, if you wish to..." She was not unaware that Meg changed the subject the first occasion Christine asked, and wondered if it was a sore spot to prod. She had no desire to cause her friend grief.

Meg grew pensive, even melancholy, which was so unlike her. "I never told anyone. Besides Maman and myself, there are very few who know the truth, but I do want to tell you. We once shared everything; had you been there with me, you would have known too."

"Whatever you tell me stays locked inside my heart." She enacted the childhood motion of crossing her heart with her hand in promise.

Meg smiled a little. "I know you wouldn't spread secrets, it isn't that – I just hope you will not think _differently_ toward me when you hear."

What could she possibly mean?

"Differently?"

Meg sighed and gave another slight nod. "Yes, well, you remember I came to Lindenwood after my parents' accident made me an orphan?"

Christine nodded and smiled in gentle encouragement. That had been one of the most notable days of her fractured childhood, the morning when she gained her dearest friend.

"Well, it turns out they were not my true parents after all. The mother I thought was mine had a sister - Maman. She came to be in the family way, and to avoid scandal, her sister and husband took me to raise as their daughter. When Maman learned of their demise, she tried to find me – but she didn't have enough money to hire a detective and attempted her own search when she could take time away from the theatre. One night, in following a lead after her work day was done, she found herself in a dangerous situation, accosted by two men in a dark alley. A third man came to her rescue, and as luck would have it, she had recently saved him from some dire fate as well! She wouldn't go into details, but in gratitude, he searched for and found me. At Lindenwood."

Christine blinked in amazement. "That is…incredible."

"Yes." A hint of apprehension lit Meg's eyes. "You don't think badly of me? For being born, well, _illegitimate_ ," she whispered the word as if afraid someone would hear. "It wouldn't be so scandalous among other thespians of the theatre, I suppose – though I've kept it secret – many are quite bohemian in their actions and I suspect some of them share similar circumstaces. But it causes Maman grief. She was scorned by her family and exiled by her parents, you see. Her sister and husband took me as their child, but on the understanding that Maman would keep her distance and never try to visit me. I discovered all this, here and there, over the years. Maman was rarely forthcoming, but my father was a bit of a scoundrel and a wastrel. Making promises never kept, then leaving her in the family way without putting a ring on her finger."

Hearing the tremor in her friend's voice, Christine took both of Meg's slim hands in her own. "I could never fault you for another man's foul deeds. You are still as lovely and sweet as always, and I would dearly treasure renewing our friendship. I have missed you."

Meg gave a watery smile, and flicked away a tear from her lashes. "I should have known I could count on you always to be there. Oh, Christine – I have missed you as well! We have so much to catch up on!" Her eyes again glimmered with excitement. "Where shall we start?"

"How long will you be staying at Thornfield?"

"A couple of weeks at least – the production won't get underway again until late next month, according to the management's predictions."

Christine smiled, the first real piece of good news she'd heard in a while. She was delighted to have her friend near again, to reminisce and form new memories as dear as the old ones, but she couldn't help think of the Maestro and wonder how long he planned to stay away from his home, while invited guests dwelt under his roof. She almost asked if Meg might know, but refrained, having no wish to deflect further outlandish conclusions with regard to herself and the Maestro that just weren't true.

xXx

During supper, Meg told Christine all about life at the Paris Opera. Christine listened in wide-eyed wonder to enthralling accounts of a gilt and crimson chamber so tall that the images of angels painted on the ceiling were obscure to see, with walls so wide, the room could fit more than a thousand people at once! She spoke of a mammoth chandelier that sparkled with hundreds upon hundreds of crystal prisms, and the colors that danced when caught in the brilliant glow of theatre lights. Of tiers of balconies and rows upon rows of velvet-covered chairs…and a stage toward which white limelight was cast upon the star, with music from a multitude of instruments so powerful, their reverberations could be felt from every area of the enormous chamber, leading even into the foyer outside its doors. She told of daily rehearsals, and costume changes, and hair dressings; of choreography to learn, librettos to memorize, and scores to sing…

And in that one moment's enchantment, Christine felt she would give all she had, anything asked of her to take the stage and lift her voice in song, to know all of what Meg described firsthand… As soon as the old dream lit a flicker within her soul and she dared to hope again, logic blew out the tiny flame with ruthless contention. A tool of the devil, she'd been told; and while she no longer was a malleable child who, at times, questioned the validity of those stern claims laid against her, as vicious and pointed as the lashings of a stick, her singing voice had created nothing but problems ever since her Papa died. It was best to bury that part of herself to others, her faded song the epitaph of a silly child and nothing more.

After dinner, the three women adjourned to the parlor. Madame took a chair before the fire, seeming distracted, her attention on the low flames. At Meg's urging, Christine returned the favor and told her more of what happened at Lindenwood up through her time there as a teacher.

"It is criminal that they discharged Mademoiselle Talbot like that. She was the only decent instructor there. Have you any idea why?"

Christine lightly shrugged. "At first, no. Later, I heard whispers of a young man she was seeing, though I have no idea if they were true. It was forbidden then – still is – for the instructors to have any association with the opposite sex."

"Their litany of rules could confound a judge." Meg settled back against the sofa, critically eyeing Christine. "I must admit, I'm surprised that you followed in Mademoiselle Talbot's footsteps and became a teacher, and now a governess. I always thought you might take a different course, one more suitable to your natural talent …"

Before Meg could expound on a subject Christine suspected and wished to avoid, there was a stir in the doorway, followed by a sky blue cloud of chiffon in the form of Adrienne. Christine's smile was bright with relief at the interruption.

The child swept into the room with all the aplomb of a prima donna, ready to receive her admirers. Material of the same chiffon and sequins in the shape of a bow was fastened to her hair, and Christine realized the child wore what appeared to be a costume, in miniature, from those that might appear on the stage. Certainly nothing she had seen in Adrienne's daily wear, and Christine also wondered if the spangled dress was Parisian in design and from the Opera House coffers.

"Bon Jour, mademoiselle," she said with a pert curtsy before Meg, "Madame." A curtsy was given to Meg's mother as well. "May I entertain you?"

Meg softly clapped her hands together in delight. "What a splendid idea! I am always the one to entertain. What is your name?" she asked with an inviting smile.

"Adrienne, mademoiselle." Dark eyes sparkled with excitement as much as Meg's did. "Do you really work at the theatre like I heard one of the maids say?"

"Yes, I do, and my mother is my ballet teacher."

Adrienne clasped her hands in her puffy spangled skirts as if to try to contain herself from prancing about the room with glee. "And do you perform plays, like Shakespeare? Shakespeare is my favorite bard, though Romeo and Juliet are rather silly."

"We actually have performed a version of Romeo and Juliet. What we do at the theatre is called opera – it's a story told through song, acted out on the stage."

"Oh! That sounds delightful! I wish to be in a play one day ... I can sing. Do you wish me to sing for you?"

"Adrienne, perhaps another time," Christine chided softly. "The Maestro might not agree."

"Oh, but it's alright," the girl was quick to defend. "The Maestro _lets_ me entertain. He's teaching me to sing," she explained to Meg and her mother.

From what little she had seen of the Maestro and his passion for music, Christine had no cause to disbelieve the child, though still had her doubts if this was appropriate. Many believed children were better seen and not heard, as she'd been taught at Lindenwood, and she had no wish to offend the Girys.

"I don't mind," Meg assured.

"Madame?" the girl asked Meg's mother hopefully.

A hint of a smile lifted her lips. "I should be honored."

"Oh how lovely!" the child exulted and turned to Christine. "Mademoiselle Daaé, will you play for me?"

Christine faintly snorted. "I can scarcely play, Adrienne. You know that."

"I will sing a song you know. Like I heard you play for the Maestro on the night you met him."

Christine was well aware of Meg's avid interest in their conversation.

"I cannot read the sheet music to play it. I only know a few hymns."

"I know those too. Madame Fairfax sometimes let me go with her to the church. Please, mademoiselle, I should dearly love to sing for your guests…"

Surprised to hear that Adrienne's religious instruction wasn't entirely lacking, Christine surrendered with a weary chuckle. "Oh, very well, Adrienne. This one time." She rose from the sofa and moved toward the small upright piano, taking a seat and placing her hands on the cool, ivory keys. "Do you know this one?"

Christine played the intro to a hymn she remembered sung at the little village church, and Adrienne nodded in excitement. "Si. I know this…."

Christine continued to play, congratulating herself that she did not once falter as she picked out chords. She could never be called skilled, but found it a pity that the Maestro couldn't hear her flawless execution now. At the thought she almost missed a note, and sharpened her focus.

Adrienne stood straight and tall, with chin lifted, holding her hands palm up at her waist before her, one hand loosely cupped inside the other. Her alto voice was sweet and soft and calm, contrary to her whirlwind nature, and pleasant to hear. Christine sensed even the Maestro would have been pleased with his pupil's performance.

Once the impromptu aria ended, Meg clapped for the girl. "Bravissima!" she exclaimed, and Adrienne beamed, regarding Meg in surprise.

"You know my language?" she asked in delight.

"You are Italian?" Meg returned in mild surprise then explained, "That is how the audience gives praise to an opera enjoyed. Some lines sung are even in that language, depending on the opera."

"And you said an opera is like a play?" At Meg's nod, Adrienne enthused, "I love the stage plays, though I've never seen one and only have read them, but I picture them in my mind as I read. Did you ever read A Midsummer Night's Dream?" Without waiting for an answer, she barreled ahead, "It's quite a lovely story by Shakespeare. There is a king of fairies, called Oberon, and his wife and a mischievous fairy named Puck. I like Puck – he's funny but sometimes mean, like when he cursed the man and gave him the face of a jackass. Have you read the story too, mademoiselle?"

"Breathe, Adrienne," Christine chided under her breath in amusement.

"Actually, we did a production of that story five years, I think...yes that's right – five years ago. I wasn't much older than you. I danced as one of the queen's fairies."

"Truly?" Adrienne clasped her hands beneath her chin and whisked around to the piano, to observe Christine. "Oh can we do the same? Not to dance – but to perform the story in a play?"

"A _play?"_ Christine took her hands from the piano's keys and blinked. "Surely you're not serious…"

"Oh – but I am! The mademoiselle said she has performed it. She will make a lovely Hermia, with her long fair hair."

Christine played along with the impossibility, curious as to the child's train of thought while hoping to get her to see reason. "And who would play Lysander, Oberon, and Demetrius?"

"Well…" the girl scrunched her brow in deep reflection. "You could play Lysander and Madame could play Oberon, and we would need to double the roles – you could play Helena and the mademoiselle could play Demetrius. There are many times when it is scenes with only them…"

" _We_ play the male roles?" Christine asked with an incredulous little huff.

"It is actually done all the time," Meg intoned, not helping at all. "In fact, the operetta of five years ago, females were cast in the roles of Oberon and Puck."

"There, you see – and we can put the play on in the fairy gazebo."

"The fairy gazebo…?" Meg repeated, sounding both amused and intrigued.

"A place in the forest," Christine said, with a dismissive wave of her hand, "and much too cold this time of the season for putting on a performance."

"Well," Adrienne said hesitantly, "there is the theatre room…"

"Theatre room?" Christine had not seen all of Thornfield, but she would think that such a room would not have escaped her notice.

"Madame Fairfax told me that the old master had the room built for his ward, Adele. She liked to dance. It has a stage and curtains, but not much else. There are chairs in there as well."

"And who do you presume would fill those chairs?" Christine asked. "Who do you plan for an audience?"

"Why, the Maestro, of course. We can put on the play for his return!" The more the girl spoke, the more excited she became, sparkles glowing in her dark eyes. "And the servants can watch too."

"Adrienne." It was time to put a stop to this. "We cannot possibly hold the play with only the four of us to perform it, even playing dual roles. It simply won't work. We would need at least three more people, and the servants are much too busy keeping Thornfield running to get involved with something like that."

The girl looked crestfallen, her eyes downcast. Christine hated deflating the girl's enthusiasm, but as her governess, she felt the need to inject some amount of reason and discipline and wasn't at all certain the performance of the bizarre play Adrienne proposed would even be welcomed by the Maestro.

Meg studied the child, pulling her brows together in empathy. "I think one good turn deserves another," she said. "I packed my ballet slippers in my trunk, and if you show me this stage, I could show you the dance."

Adrienne swiftly lifted her head, her eyes hopeful and surprised. "You would do that, mademoiselle?"

Meg grinned. "I would."

"Oh, yes, I should love to see you dance! Will you dance tonight?"

"Adrienne, you must be patient," Christine said. "I am sure Mademoiselle Giry is weary from traveling. It can wait until tomorrow. Besides, isn't it soon time for you to be in bed? I'm sure your nurse will be wondering where you are."

The child stuck her lip out in a pout. "Oh, very well."

"Say goodnight and run along."

She gave a slight curtsy to both Girys. "Goodnight." Her eyes twinkled as she hesitated. "I look forward to seeing you dance tomorrow, mademoiselle."

Meg grinned. "I look forward to dancing for you, Adrienne."

The girl's smile was wide as she skipped from the room.

"Please don't feel obligated," Christine began, but Meg cut her off with a laugh.

"I welcome each and every opportunity to dance, and this would be lovely, since I really don't wish to go two weeks without practice. I have no desire to get rusty in the joints."

Christine gave a grudging smile. "Well, if I'm honest – Adrienne isn't the only one who would love to see you dance."

"Oh, très bonne!" Meg clapped her hands together in delight. "And will you sing? I remember you had such a sweet voice."

Christine had expected the issue to come up at some point, after their dreams shared as children, but it arrived so swiftly she was taken aback. She rose from the piano bench and approached the sofa, woodenly sitting down next to her friend.

"I no longer sing, Meg, and I would consider it a favor if you don't mention my former diversions to anyone, especially Adrienne."

"She is a little firecracker, isn't she?" Meg agreed, her eyes curious, but thankfully she didn't ask why.

"She is that."

"Indeed," Madame put in with a smile, "she reminds me of someone I know quite well." Her pointed look at Meg left no doubt who she had in mind.

The evening ended on a high note, with more giggling and reminiscing of those happy moments shared in their childhood, few and far between which made them more memorable. They parted for the night, and alone in her chamber, Christine felt the first bliss of peace she'd known since coming to Thornfield.

She should have known then that such good tidings, for her, were not meant to last. Had she known, she might have stayed alert and treasured the experience instead of falling into immediate slumber.

xXx

It was with a shock that their companionable breakfast in the sunny nook of the morning room was interrupted by a woman's screeching from somewhere within the manor, a high-pitched call in demand for immediate assistance. Had they been in Jericho, the walls would have come tumbling down…

A string of what sounded like possible obscenities in a foreign tongue caused Meg to drop her fork to her plate and seek her mother's eyes in horror. Madame Giry likewise tensed and frowned.

"What is _she_ doing here?" Meg asked. "Tell me she wasn't invited!"

"No, he wouldn't have invited her," Madame agreed. "I must see to this at once."

Christine felt curious alarm by their unfavorable reactions and when Meg followed her mother, rising from the table to head toward the clamor, Christine followed, thankful her foot gave her little pain today and she could match their swift pace.

She pulled up short at sight of the fiery woman who stood and vibrated with anger in the foyer. Her mauve and pink dress was wet, the hat perched atop her head a ruin. Feathers as pink as the dress she wore drooped and dripped with water, as did bedraggled strands of her russet-red hair. Behind her stood what Christine assumed were her two servants, arms full of parcels and trembling in their shoes.

"Jeest look what has been done to me!" the redhead wailed in a voice that rubbed Christine's eardrums raw. "Someone threw the wash water out of the window without looking!"

Christine recalled, when in her sickbed, Madame Fairfax correcting one of the upstairs maids to lug the full basin downstairs and not use the shorter method of tossing it out the second-story window. Idly she wondered if the blunder in conduct would result in the rebellious maid's discharge.

The newcomer violently motioned to her hat, pulling a hatpin from the sopping mess and removing the wilting construction from her head, poking the pin inside the band and making a sour face. "And look what the fool did to _my hat_!"

Spotting Christine, who stood near Meg, the angry intruder swept toward her and shoved the hat at her chest. "You! Take thees." Christine automatically lifted her hands to catch the sopping mess before it hit the marble floor.

Meg scowled. "Why are you here?"

The woman lifted her chin in haughty appraisal and sneered, "I need not explain myself to an insignificant little ballet rat!"

"Perhaps then, you will explain your presence to me," Madame Giry said gravely, and Christine saw a glimpse of the authority Meg's mother must wield at the theatre.

The irate woman turned her eyes to her addressor. "Why, by _inveetation_ , of course. You were there…"

"She must have been eavesdropping outside Maman's office door when the Maestro was inside," Meg whispered to Christine. "The gall of that woman!"

 _That woman_ briefly turned insolent eyes her way, as if having heard them. "I am a guest of Monsieur Rochester, just as you are, Madamoiselle Giry. And I wish to change into dry clothing now. Take me to my room." This, directed to Christine. "Andiamo, Maria – bring my things."

Christine squared her shoulders, having had enough. "You are mistaken, Madame, I am not the maid. I am the governess, Christine Daaé." She shoved the hat back at the sodden pink creature, and the woman's dark eyes bugged wide. "And I have yet to know who you are."

The woman drew herself up as if she were the Empress of France. "I am Signora Carlotta Giudicelli, the leading soprano and star attraction of the Opera House in Paris…"

Before Christine could respond to the woman's glorified introduction, a man of slender physique stepped into the foyer. With golden-brown hair that waved nearly to his shoulders, he bore the dignified look of an aristocrat.

Meg pulled Christine a quick step back as all eyes went to him. "The Maestro isn't going to like this one bit," she whispered for Christine's ears alone. "He can barely tolerate her presence, and he certainly won't want his!"

"Bon Jour, ladies," the young man said with an engaging grin. "Signora Giudicelli told me of the open invitation to visit Thornfield during this respite. I thought to escort her here, so as to meet my co-patron at last." Catching sight of Christine, his brows lifted and he looked in pointed question toward Meg's mother. "Madame, if you would do the honors?"

Christine thought she saw Madame Giry's jaw tense but wasn't sure. "Mademoiselle Christine Daaé, the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny."

"Daaé…" the Vicomte said as if working out a puzzle. "Have we met, mademoiselle?"

"No, sir. I am most certain we have not."

"She is only the governess," the proud Carlotta spoke, slipping her hand through the Vicomte's arm possessively, and turning narrowed eyes on Christine. "If you will see to finding a maid to take us to our rooms, I would be grateful," she said superciliously, her tone bearing no gratitude.

"Of course. If you will excuse me," Christine managed through tight lips, finding the opportunity a coveted escape. Anything to put distance between herself and these latest guests and intruders. The Vicomte had been charmingly civil, but Christine felt the first flutterings of misgiving to feel his eyes on her the entire time she walked from the room.

She had no say in the matter, of course. Could neither ask them to leave or welcome them to stay; she was neither mistress of this manor nor a member of the family. But after Meg's whispered warning, Christine couldn't help but be concerned with how the Maestro would respond to return and find his home thus invaded.

If only she knew when that day was to be…

xXx

* * *

 **A/N: And so, the plot does thicken…wonder what the Master of Thornfield will have to say when he returns; perhaps we shall find out in the next chapter… ;-) And what do you think of the newest guests to Thornfield? (I do so love to stir the pot!)  
**


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Thank you for the wonderful reviews! :) They make my day! And now...**

* * *

 **Chapter XIV**

The next day, Christine and Meg followed Adrienne to the theatre room. Christine felt her first check of misgiving when Adrienne pulled a brass key from the pocket of her pinafore and slipped it in the keyhole above the knob.

"The door is kept locked?" Christine stated in somber surprise. "Perhaps the Maestro doesn't wish for anyone to visit."

"No - it's kept locked when not in use," Adrienne swiftly excused herself. "Ask Madame Fairfax, if you like. She leaves it on a hook near the kitchen for anyone to take. The maids dust in there regularly."

The kitchens were on the other side of the manor, and though Christine had greatly recovered, she did not relish the idea of walking there. She would speak with the housekeeper at the first opportunity...but could not vanquish her own wretched curiosity to see this theatre built inside the manor. Surely the Maestro kept nothing in there he wouldn't wish seen, in this chamber designed for public viewing.

"Perhaps, this once" she relented and hoped she wasn't making a grave mistake to allow this indulgence of her curiosity.

Adrienne smiled and replaced the key, turning it then twisting the high brass knob. With the gas lamps bracketed to the wall soon lit, Christine surveyed the windowless room, in length running three times the distance of its width. The stage to the left took up nearly half the wall into which it was recessed and stood a few feet off the ground. Five steps up each side led to the platform, and dark green and gold tasseled curtains, no less luxurious than everything else at Thornfield, hung closed at its edge.

Six rows of tapestry-covered chairs stood before the stage. Above them a beautifully wrought iron chandelier acted as an elegant basket to two tiers of candles and hung from the ceiling, a similar chandelier hanging at the far end of the chamber. A small table had been placed at the bottom end of the stage closest to the door, an odd contraption sitting on its surface. Adrienne went directly to it while Christine's attention was captured elsewhere...

Facing the stage, along the opposite wall behind the chairs, a banner-like painting hung, unframed, at least ten feet long. Within the scene, half-naked women in Grecian dress stood or danced in a meadow, while above on a short cliff a powerfully built man played the lyre. Of those maidens that Christine could see well from this vantage point, one bore a scroll in her hand, one a flute, and one a mask.

"Apollo and the Nine Muses," Meg said, coming up beside Christine to also stare at the masterpiece in oils that stood almost as tall as they did. "There are golden statues at the Opera House much like those figures in the painting. Whoever created it is quite skilled. It's a shame to keep something like this hidden away in a locked chamber. It would certainly fit in well with all the extravagant décor at the Paris Opera House."

"Indeed." Christine drew closer, noting the oils chiefly used were earthen greens, rustic browns, indigo blues, and carnelian reds, all dark and vivid, the porcelain-skinned goddesses mysteriously smiling with mischief in their eyes, as if the painting could come to life at any moment. Darkness did not master the theme; at first glance it was only a festive woodland scene of merriment. Yet upon peering closer as she slowly walked along to take it all in, Christine saw the deep shadows that lurked in the corners, the red eyes of threat staring out from behind tall ferns, a few trees twisting like skeletal arms in the background, amid the many lush ones, and the clouds above, when concentrated upon, gave the appearance of a skull.

She did not wonder about the identity of the artist. It was apparent in every skilled slash of paint and trick of light and shadow. She and the Maestro shared a bond of the soul in the expression of their art, so similar...yet so unalike. As he had said, in each of her drawings, despite the pervasive gloom that found its way into the scene, there was always a small source of light, a trace of hope to turn to; but in his creations, the suggestion of encroaching darkness was the foundation, not the escape...

What would cause a man to lose all hope?

Christine's thoughts were cut off by the tinny sound of a violin disturbing the quiet, and she spun around in surprise to see Adrienne crank a handle on the side of the large contraption, gaining Christine's undivided attention as she approached the child.

"Adrienne, perhaps you shouldn't play with that." Unwanted, the cruel memory of her cousin's broken music box and the frightful punishment she suffered came to mind. At least she had never known the Maestro to be cruel, if indifference could not be cast into the mold of cruelty.

"Oh, I know how to work it. See these three cylinders?" Adrienne picked up a gold column less then half the length of her arm with little nodules scattered all around it. "You place whichever one you want here," she pointed to the contraption, where another cylinder lay, "And voila!"

Adrienne resumed turning the handle, and strange, whispery notes, adequate in volume, emitted from a large silver horn of what resembled a trumpet flower connected to a smaller wooden box. Never had Christine seen or heard anything like it, and by Meg's intrigued reaction, neither had she. Inside, a metal cylinder gradually spun until it slowed then stopped as did the music. Christine wondered where the Maestro found it, but most of all she wondered if he also played the violin.

"Will this work for accompaniment?" Adrienne asked Meg.

"It will." Meg grinned her approval. "How do the curtains open?"

"A cord hangs down on the inside."

Meg walked up the closest set of stairs, disappearing behind the heavy drapery. After a moment, the two halves of the tall curtain whooshed apart, exposing a dark stage. Gas lamps bracketed on the recessed wall were lit, giving brighter illumination and displaying a painted backdrop of a forest.

"Oh, this is perfect," Adrienne clapped her hands beneath her chin.

"Perfect?"

"For the play. Can you not see the king and queen of fairies engaged in their devilment? And Puck too."

"Adrienne, we talked about this…"

"Adrienne, if you would please start the music again," Meg called from behind the curtain and stepped out. She had doffed her cloak and stood in full costume, as if attending a professional rehearsal.

Adrienne did so and soon the tinny strains of a distant violin once again crackled through the trumpet flower…

Meg flitted gingerly across the stage with airy steps reminiscent of a butterfly being chased. Outfitted in pristine white, she had brought not only her toe slippers but also her leotard and fluffy tutu…not a butterfly - a swan, exhibiting graceful movements to match. Twirls and leaps performed with seeming ease that must, in truth, be difficult to accomplish. It wasn't a stretch of the mind to see how her aspirations would lead to greatness, and Christine was happy for her friend, certain one day Meg's name would be favorably discussed in every Parisian parlor.

"Isn't she magnificent?" Adrienne loudly whispered from the seat next to Christine, and Christine nodded her agreement.

As the magical box wound down, so did the music. Meg altered her steps to slow with the accompaniment, ending in a graceful descent upon one curled leg, with her head bowed to the other leg stretched fully before her, arms lifted in an arc above her head like a dying swan as she brought her upper body fully forward to recline.

"Bravissima!" Adrienne enthused, jumping to her feet and clapping in eager delight. "Magnifica! You are a most sublime dancer, mademoiselle! You simply must dance in the play."

"You dance exceptionally well," Christine added her own praise, ignoring Adrienne's hundredth reference to the idea of such an absurd performance.

"Merci beaucoup," Meg gracefully rose to her feet and gave a fluid curtsy.

The three trespassers lingered long enough to extinguish the gas lamps before leaving the chamber empty and locked again. Christine held her hand out for the key. Adrienne reluctantly handed it over, clearly not happy to relinquish her hold on the little treasure.

"May we have a picnic today?" she asked.

"It's too cold for that. We'll have luncheon in the morning room," Christine decided.

"The morning room?" Adrienne said in surprise. "But it's midday."

"There are more windows in that room than any other to eat in, and the sunshine will flood the chamber. It will be the next best thing to a picnic."

Later, she would come to regret her decision. Had she agreed to the cold-weather picnic, at least a slim hour of shivering due to the weather was the sole hardship she would bear. But sometimes the path darkly taken could lead to a bramble-covered pit; thorns tearing through flesh as one dug their way to escape…

x

They were halfway through luncheon, clouds having moved across the sun's path and making the room quite dreary and dim, when the first thorny vine swept into the room.

"There you are!" Carlotta spoke, as if the three diners had done her a great disservice. "Is there notheeng to do in this place? I will die from the boredom!"

"You could always go to the village," Christine suggested, anticipating her absence.

She sniffed. "We came through on our arrival. It is small – not like Paris with its many boutiques and cafés."

"I agree," Meg said readily. "You should return to Paris. There is nothing worthy of you here."

The remark was made with bland countenance, her tone almost congenial, and apparently only Christine detected the dry twist of insult the woman deserved, since Carlotta only sullenly nodded.

"I can entertain you," Adrienne piped up. "Your dress is very pretty," she added a bit wistfully.

Carlotta's eyes instantly searched out the conveyor of the compliment of her attire, today an elaborate day gown of soft rose-pink with shimmering golden swirls in the material of the over-skirt, and her brows lifted in curious surprise. " _Ciao_ \- and who are you?"

"I am Adrienne." The girl popped out of her chair with a wide smile and gave the diva a curtsy. " _Buongiorno, Signora_. You speak Italian?"

" _Si, si, si_." Carlotta looked at the girl with something akin to surprised delight. " _Sei la figlia del Maestro?_ _"_

 _"_ _No, sono il suo pupillo."_

 _"_ _Come puoi intrattenermi?"_

 _"_ _So cantare! Il Maestro mi ha insegnato_."

Feeling at a loss and alarmed to hear the Maestro's name pop up more than once, Christine felt she should put a stop to the mystery conversation. "Adrienne, French if you please," she corrected her, then, "what did she ask you?" She ignored Carlotta's scornful look directed her way.

"The Signora asked if I was the Maestro's daughter. I told her no, I'm his ward, and that he taught me to sing." Eagerly she turned to Carlotta. "Would you like to hear? I can entertain you – and _oh_!" She almost squealed, the thought that passed over her eyes making them shine like dark stars. "We can now perform the play!" she enthused in a flurry of excitement to Christine, then turned back to adress Carlotta. "You must take part as well – you will be perfect as Oberon's queen. We plan to put it on for the Maestro when he returns."

"Adrienne, I never said -" Christine began.

"A play?" Carlotta nearly purred, smiling at the cast designation of the word 'queen'.

"Oh, but you did!" Adrienne whipped her gaze back to Christine. "You said we need three more players to perform the play well, and now we have them! The Signora and the Vicomte that came with her and her two servants – that's more than three. Fate must have decided the outcome, like the Maestro says!"

"But, no, I didn't mean -" Christine spluttered, never having believed it would come to this!

"You did say it," Meg said softly near her elbow.

"Yes, you're not helping," Christine quietly snapped beneath her breath then turned back to the spirited child, hoping to get her to see calm reason. "Adrienne, I'm sure the Signora and the Vicomte have better things to do with their time than take part in such an amateur undertaking."

Adrienne frowned, seeming perplexed, and turned to the redheaded diva. "Do you?"

Carlotta cast another seething look of disdain Christine's way, as if to put her in her place, then smiled at the child. "I should love to be Queen of your play, and my servants will do as I tell them."

"Wonderful!" Adrienne clapped her hands beneath her chin. "That leaves only the Vicomte." She glanced at Christine. "I suppose we don't really need him, since you said three, and he makes four. Still, it wouldn't be polite to leave him out, and everyone is forever telling me I should be polite."

Christine tried again. "Adrienne –"

"Last I saw the Vicomte, he was in the library," Carlotta interrupted smoothly.

Adrienne flashed her wide smile at the diva. "Gracias, Signora! I will ask him now!"

Before Christine could stop her, Adrienne was out the door like a silken blue arrow in eager search of its unwitting target. Carlotta smirked arrogantly at the women, triumphant over her conquest, then swept from the room as if she truly believed herself a queen, her ever-present entourage following several steps behind.

"Don't fret so," Meg encouraged, "I think, perhaps, Lindenwood has gotten beneath your skin. You've forgotten how to relax and have fun, Christine. The world isn't so intolerant and demanding as we were led to believe. Besides, what harm can one little play do?"

She dreaded to find out.

xXx

The Vicomte agreed, Fate playing her sly hand once again. It seemed, come hell or high water, the performance would go on, and though as the child's governess Christine had the authority to stop it, she saw no real reason to. Anything untoward could be controlled, and with the caveat to Adrienne being that all scenes must meet with Christine's approval, the preparations were underway.

Over the next several afternoons, as well as half of her morning lessons, Adrienne painstakingly wrote out the dialogue, so that each two participants would have a copy to share. Carlotta's servants were put to work fashioning costumes from the ribbons and castoffs of servant uniforms Adrienne brought them, while Christine and Meg were delegated to make the head of a jackass from scraps of brown cloth, buttons, bits of wire and other sundry items. Where the girl had found such a wide assortment of gewgaws, Christine wasn't certain, but at Madame Fairfax's clear approval – even eagerness to see the play in its final presentation – Christine decided they weren't doing anything of which the Maestro would disapprove, and felt a bit more at ease, even able to joke along with Meg as they fashioned the mask of an ass…

Wire was absconded from an old birdcage long banished to a storage room, even the Vicomte given a task by Adrienne, to snip individual wires and bend them, using Adrienne's hobby horse as a guideline. To Christine's surprised relief, he was quite gregarious with the child, and condescended to her every instruction. Christine cut scraps to fit and stitched them together, fashioning a face for the beast, sewing on buttons for eyes and cutting wide slits beneath to see through. Meg, though rusty at the needlework once learned at Lindenwood, did her best to help – both of them fashioning a puppet-like mask for Carlotta's servant to wear.

As Christine swiftly pulled the needle in and out of the smooth material, her thoughts went to the mask the Maestro was never without. Surely, though it was made of leather and not constructed of wire and suede, it couldn't be comfortable to habitually wear, and she frowned to think he felt it his destiny to endure such a fate.

"Christine," Meg said, amusement in her voice. "Did you intend to make the jackass smile?"

"Did I...what?" Christine said distractedly and looked at the last two teeth she'd stitched on with scraps of white material. "Well, so I did!" she said with a careless grin. "Better a happy beast than a miserable one."

Meg looked at her oddly but didn't ferret out what she meant by that remark.

Christine didn't think the Maestro beastly, not really, though at times he could be monstrous in his behavior. Nor did she admit that she'd been thinking of the Master of Thornfield the entire time they stitched in silence.

"Papa loved animals," Christine said hurriedly to crowd out such thoughts. "Sometimes, if we were very still, a few would gather as he played. Squirrels, cats, a fox once – even _a doe_ if you can believe it _._ They never came close, only within eyesight, but they would calmly sit or stand, as if the music soothed them."

They sat on the parlor sofa, with Adrienne seated at a nearby table busily penning the final copy of the libretto she designed. The Vicomte sat across from her at the table, which seated four, and was designed to play cards. He busily twisted wires together with a tool, forming the frame for the cloth mask the women fashioned to slip over it.

"Your father played for the animals as well as the people?" Meg queried in delight.

"Well, it wasn't intentional." Her tone grew bittersweet. "I used to love hearing him play the violin when I was a child."

"That's it!" suddenly came with gusto from the table, and both girls looked up in surprise, watching as the Vicomte shot to his feet. "Daaé!" he exclaimed with a victorious smile. "I _knew_ I'd heard the name before. Your father was a musician. He played on the streets."

Christine wasn't sure why, but his words rankled. "Before I was born, he played in an orchestra."

"Yes, yes, I meant no disrespect." He walked to where they were seated and came to stand before Christine. "You had a knitted scarf that you said was your mother's – it was windy, that day by the sea. Your scarf came loose and blew into the water…"

Christine stared, bits and pieces of what he said fitting into a memory she couldn't fully recall. So much had happened, so many years in between - but she did remember a well-dressed boy who doffed his shoes and coat and raced from his parents' side to fish her flyaway scarf from the frothy waves before the sea could swallow it.

"You were the boy who rescued it?" Christine asked in amazement.

His smile was brilliant. "You remember!"

"Not all of it, no…" She faintly smiled and directed her next words to her pupil, who had stopped writing and sat, eyes wide with interest. If ears could bend, they would be fully turned their way. "Adrienne, be a dear and ask Madame Fairfax to prepare tea and sandwiches."

The child seemed about to argue, but checked herself and left the room to tend to a task she'd never once been asked to do.

"It was well over a decade ago," Christine said to the Vicomte once she was certain Adrienne had gone. "I was but six, but I do have a hazy memory of that day and later, of playing in the attic at your family's seaside cottage on a rainy afternoon, while you read dark tales to me."

"At least you remember that," he forgave her lack of recollection.

"It was a very difficult summer." Christine set down her needlework and went still. "My father fell gravely ill and died only months after you left. My life drastically changed in that one horrid night."

He dropped to one knee before her and took her hand in contrition. Christine was aware of Meg's surprise, a match to her own.

"I'm sorry about your father," he said. "He had such a God-given talent. Even as a lad of ten I recall how well he played, and you – you sang like an angel."

Christine felt no warm glow to hear such praise, only unease. "I would appreciate it if you don't mention my entertaining as a child. I don't wish to become the next round of juicy gossip at Thornfield."

"But why keep such a spectacular voice secret?"

"Please, monsieur!" She kept her voice whisper-soft, with a hint of impatience to warn him, aware any of the servants could be lurking outside the door.

"I shall agree to your request," he said with a sly look in his blue eyes, "if you sing for me one more time."

Flustered, she pulled her hand away from his. "No, you don't understand. That part of my life is over. I prefer to keep it in the past, where it belongs."

He looked somberly astounded. "Tell me that you still sing?"

"No, and I ask once more that you not bring it up again. I'm a governess and a teacher and nothing else. Now, if you'll excuse me…"

She barely had room to rise, he knelt so close, but she managed to skirt around him.

"I sincerely hope I haven't offended," he pleaded, turning to watch her while standing to his feet.

Christine shook her head and managed a polite smile. "No. I must speak to Madame Fairfax. There is some business I'd forgotten that must be addressed." Such as the menu for supper, which was hardly the task of a governess. But with no one else to plan and with guests in residence, the housekeeper daily sought out Christine's aid in what to prepare, likely because Meg was her friend and a guest.

Yet it wasn't to the kitchens that her feet led her but out the door and over the grounds, and she saw by the placement of the watery sun, it had gone into early evening.

Five days had elapsed since their arrival. Her ailments had faded, almost to be of no significance, though she kept gloves on her hands whenever possible to prevent irritation while they fully healed.

Meg was a dear, a tease at times, but gave her no real grief; it was a delight to be reunited with her childhood friend. But that harridan La Carlotta, as Meg dubbed her, threatened to stretch every taut nerve, her one saving grace that she had a clear affinity for the child, though she showed no consideration toward any other occupant of Thornfield, save for the Vicomte. Adrienne confided in Christine that Carlotta told her Adrienne reminded her of her little sister, which would explain such uncharacteristic kindness. And the Vicomte, well, his focused attentions toward Christine now made sense, she supposed, but she needed no continual reminder of a past that only taunted her with what could have been.

Emotionally of late, she felt herself being slowly torn to tatters, and so it was with no great surprise she found herself at the magical spot where she'd begun her painting. She would love to return to that as well and could easily hold a paintbrush, with or without gloves, but she resisted, not wishing to be rude and disappear during her free hours, though Meg would in all likelihood enjoy the scenic area too.

But, for Christine, it had become her hideaway, and she guarded it selfishly. Another secret, and the only place she felt safe to express what lay deep inside her soul, the wistful need strengthened after the conversation she'd just escaped.

Ever since the night she had stumbled upon the Maestro at his piano, the need perpetually burned...

xXx

The Master of Thornfield returned to his home, to learn that along with his two guests invaders were present. Before the insolent cretins could catch sight of him, he gruffly gave Madame Fairfax orders to resume preparations for the tea Christine had requested and quit the manor. Cesar needed rest after the lengthy ride from Paris, so Erik decided a walk along the grounds to assess what would need repair was circumspect; anything to prolong the confrontation that would soon follow.

He had been surprised to learn Christine was an orphan from Lindenwood, having visited that godforsaken place in secret over a decade ago, in his search for Madame Giry's small daughter. It stood to reason the two girls would have known each other, and upon furtively questioning Madame a week ago, he learned that in past years Meg spoke fondly of a childhood friend named Christine with the surname of Daaé. It was then he issued the invitation to the Girys to visit Thornfield during this respite, hoping the atypical act would in some small way atone to Christine for the grievous injuries she suffered while saving his worthless carcass from the fire.

He did _not_ , however, extend the invitation to the overblown diva and that insolent pup she'd brought with her. The Vicomte had recently arrived to the theatre as its newest patron, full of himself and his ideas; but all he was proving was to be a pest. And the woman, well, she had always been a leech. A screeching leech.

Erik's tight grin faded at the apt comparison, when suddenly he halted on the path upon hearing a distant sound so opposite from the auditory murder La Carlotta was prone to commit. He concentrated hard to hear and changed direction to leave the path and walk into the chill breeze that carried with it so sweet a sound. It still came faraway but more discernible, and he listened in stunned shock as his mind scrambled to reveal the truth.

That _voice_ …

Shivers of incredulity brought him to remember the night, long ago, that changed the course of his miserable life. It couldn't be...no. It _wasn't possible!_ The cliff where he'd nearly thrown himself into the sea wasn't a great distance. Yet after so many years, to hear the enchanting voice again - _was it_ even possible? The singer could no longer be a child, if indeed she was then, but the tone was just as innocent and angelic. A girl from the village, perhaps, wandering through the forest, not realizing she had crossed over onto the boundary of his land…

He hastened his steps, determined to seek her out, but to his frustration, the voice faded instead of strengthened. He changed direction and charged through a copse of trees, intent to listen over the faint rush of wind. He felt a little jolt when the siren's call grew a fraction stronger, words now discernible though not entirely clear. This time, instead of petitioning an Angel of Music, the words seemed mournful, the bearer expressing a wish for someone beloved to be near. That it was the same voice, he was certain – none had ever moved him so powerfully, then and now.

With each season that passed since his return to Thornfield, he desired to hear that voice again, even having visited that fateful cliff sometimes during the day, often at dusk with the frail hope his wish would be granted. But after days and months and years arrived and departed, he'd given up hope for such dreams to alter his hollow reality, sure that his nightingale had long flown to different climes.

The voice again faded, and cursing the wind that so cruelly stole the stirring notes, he broke into a run as if his life depended on it.

 _He **must** find her!_

After what seemed a small eternity, he crashed through tall overgrowth into the small niche of forest that held the ancient stone platform his grandfather's ward once used as a stage. The shaded clearing with its overhanging branches stood disappointingly empty, the lyrical voice also having disappeared, and though he waited, even prayed to hear it again, God help him, he should have realized his petition for an angel would not be granted to one possessing the appearance and actions of the very devil.

Erik covered the area as a ravenous beast searches prey, ever-waiting, his ears sharply attuned to hear beyond the papery rustle of autumn leaves the breeze stirred, but it proved useless, and he began to question his sanity. Perhaps there had been no siren's voice, no evasive creature - only an eternal longing once more ignited by the figment of his dreams that taunted him into chasing endlessly and reaching for a distant star never fated to be in his grasp.

Haunted by _a_ _ghost_ …yes, that's what he was.

How damnably fitting.

xXx

"Christine, where have you been?" Meg rose from the sofa to greet her, her mother the only other occupant in the room.

"Has something happened?"

"Nothing of consequence. Oh, dear – you're limping again!" Meg plucked russet particles of leaves from Christine's hair near her skull. "Have you been taking a stroll on the grounds?"

Christine felt a niggling of guilt not to invite Meg. "Next time, you must come with me."

She had pushed herself too hard, though her foot didn't hurt as badly as it had in past days. She had paused in her secret song to Papa, and in those few quiet breaths heard what sounded like a wild animal charging through the undergrowth. Absent of any weapon and terrified to be cornered by a dangerous beast or a wandering mortal, she slipped quietly through the bushes and took the hidden path leading to the North Tower. She had dashed back to the manor, heedless of the twigs that slapped at her clothing and snatched at her hair, and was still a bit breathless.

"Adrienne went to the theatre," Meg informed her. "It seems that rehearsals start now. I said I would wait for you."

"Now?" Christine brushed a stray leaf from her skirt and did a quick inventory for any other telltale signs that would betray her. "Her nursemaid might have something to say about that. It will soon be dusk."

"Oh, she's been roped into the cast, too. The diva has spoken and wishes to relieve her boredom, so rehearsals begin at once." Meg rolled her eyes a little in disgusted mockery.

"Adrienne has been hopping about like a gleeful grasshopper the moment she opened the book with that play inside. It wouldn't take a lot to persuade her."

Meg peered at her intently. "Did something happen? You seem upset."

"No, everything is fine." She was grateful she'd made her escape - twice in one day.

"It's the Vicomte, isn't it? He is dynamic in nature but really quite harmless. It's astonishing that you once knew him…"

Christine's lips quirked at Meg's blatant fishing but she took the bait. "I barely remember that summer and only met with him on a few occasions to play. Papa needed me with him; there was no one else. It was during the onset of his illness."

"Oh, Christine…" Meg put a consoling hand to her arm. "I didn't mean to pry."

"Turnabout is fair play."

"What?" Meg pulled her hand away, taken aback.

"Do you fancy him?" Christine asked, sotto voce, aware that Madame Giry sat on the opposite side of the room. As if Meg also recalled that fact, she darted her a quick glance, relieved to see her mother engrossed in a book on music.

"Why would you even suggest such a thing?"

"Shall we retreat to the theatre chamber and join the others?"

"Yes, please," Meg said, then more loudly, "Maman, are you coming?"

"I will be along soon, my dear." Madame Giry had elected not to actively participate in the performance, instead offering her services in its direction.

"It's the way you look at him when he doesn't notice," Christine continued once she and Meg were safely out of earshot "…and how you made it a point _not_ to look at him when he revealed our brief history together."

"He is quite handsome," Meg said with a wistful sigh, "and kinder than you'd expect for one of his station. But honestly, what chance would a dancer have with a Vicomte?"

"More than a governess, I would think," Christine teased, making Meg grin.

They arrived at the open door of the theatre room, to find the rehearsal underway. One of the diva's servants held a libretto, cuing Carlotta as she stumbled along in her lines. They were in the midst of a scene between King Oberon, played by the Vicotme, and his queen, Titania, with Adrienne as Puck standing at his side. Still undiscovered, Christine and Meg stood just inside the chamber and watched the players fumble through their lines, though Adrienne whisked through her part with ease, having memorized it well. Christine wasn't surprised. Drama coursed through the child's veins, theatrics running rampant in her blood.

The play continued, the Vicomte reading his lines from the paper:

"…See as thou wast wont to see: Dian's bud o'er Cupid's flower hath such force and blessed power. Now, my Titania - wake you, my sweet queen!"

Though Carlotta would be stretched out on a chaise longue to be brought in for the performance, she stood in this rough rehearsal and stretched as if just awakening.

"My Oberon! what visions have I seen! Methought …"

Several seconds elapsed, and Carlotta looked with emphatic question, arching her painted brows high toward her servant holding the libretto.

"I was enamored –" the woman began, giving her the cue.

"I was enamour'd of an ass," Carlotta quickly finished.

The Vicomte chuckled, in character, reading from his own libretto. " _There_ lies your love."

Carlotta looked with abject horror toward her other servant, who wore the beast's head they had worked hard to construct. The man turned beast also stood, though in the actual performance he would be stretched out beside the queen, still in slumber beside her. "How came these things to pass?" she wailed. "O, how mine eyes do loathe his visage now! To think, I did kiss that cursed face!"

"Silence awhile. Robin, take off this head…"

All within the chamber did abruptly go silent, deathly so, the Vicomte's passage ending altogether. Christine had no need to look behind to understand that every startled eye now turned their way from the stage wasn't focused on Meg or herself.

An odd undercurrent in the air tingled her spine and charged her heart to beat a rapid cadence; her intake of breath, when Christine forced herself to breathe, came somewhat stilted.

Possessing no doubt of who stood in the doorway, she turned fully and looked, beyond the ever-present black mask and into eyes of glaring gold.

xXx

* * *

 **A/N: Methinks, perchance, someone is in trouble. ;-) ... Most lines of the play that Adrienne penned I took directly from Shakespeare's** ** _A Midsummer Night's Dream_** **. Only one line is my own, to fit better with what I wanted for this part of the story. Can you guess which one? ;-)**


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: Thank you for the wonderful reviews! :) Much, much appreciated... And now…**

* * *

 **XV**

Christine held her breath while waiting for the proverbial blade of the guillotine to drop upon her slender neck.

"Mademoiselle Giry," the Maestro said with a curt nod of perfunctory greeting toward Meg. "Mademoiselle Daaé." His fiery eyes seemed to blaze right through her. "A word, if you please."

Without another syllable of clipped address and ignoring all the other stunned people in the theatre room, he turned sharply on his heel and set a rapid pace down the corridor.

"Good luck," Meg silently mouthed as the two women shared a look of dread. Rolling her eyes a little, Christine nodded and followed the Master of the Manor out of the chamber, down the labyrinth of corridors, and into the library, noting as he firmly closed the double doors behind them for privacy she wasn't sure she wanted at the moment.

Christine lingered just inside, watching as the Maestro approached his carved desk and chair with its leonine armrests. Rather than take a seat, he stood tall and formidable, putting his back to her as if to regain control, his fingertips pressing to either side atop his desk, before turning to face Christine and noting she had not budged an inch.

"Come closer," he commanded, "or are you now afraid of me?" The amusement in his words was both bitter and challenging.

"No." Straightening her spine and her resolve, Christine did as ordered, doing her best to conceal her slight limp. Her effort was futile as his eyes immediately drew to the bottom of her skirt with hawk-like precision.

"Your foot has not yet healed?" he asked, temporarily distracted from launching into his certain diatribe.

"It's much better," Christine brushed his words of tight concern away. "I've been on my feet a great deal today. I think I must have overdone it." And then, before he could tear into her, she spoke. "I take full responsibility for opening the theatre. I wrongly assumed it was available for Adrienne's recreation, that the key hanging on the hook in the kitchens was available to take. The blame for our intrusion there is entirely my own."

"Forget the bloody theatre - were you also responsible for that travesty of a play? Or does the credit go to those imbeciles lumbering about the stage?"

The _play_? He was upset about the play and not her intrusion into the locked theatre? Christine took a moment to try to realign her mind with what he believed was the transgression.

"When I was bedridden, I told Adrienne to pick a book from the library for her lesson. You may recall, I asked your permission. She chose that tale of Shakespeare, and after reading it to me, became eager to see it performed."

He seemed to consider and gave an abrupt nod, then leaned his hips back against the desk and crossed his arms over his chest. His aura of nonchalant attentiveness was a sham; she could see the fire of rage still burn brightly in his eyes.

"And you _allowed_ it. No doubt to mock me in my absence," he added in sardonic afterthought.

" _Mock_ you?" She was genuinely surprised. "It was never my intention to mock you."

"No?" He unwound his arms and straightened to his full height. "So the subject matter of the bard's work did not entice you to allow the performance?"

Christine frantically thought through the play's suggestive theme. She had supposed he might be upset with her choice, thinking it unfit for the young Adrienne, though she had been sure to censor original lines said in the libretto they performed. But to _mock him_? She thought back to what he'd seen of the play…

"The jackass?" she asked, feeling she had at last arrived to the cause of his irritation. "You can be stubborn at times, and as the master of Thornfield, I suppose it is your right. But I don't think of you as a jackass."

His brow inched higher by the shift of his mask. "I am delighted to hear it."

His tone hardly boded delight, every word disdainful and lacking sincerity, and she shook her head in frustration. "I don't understand, Maestro. Please, enlighten me. If you're not upset about our use of the theatre or my granting permission to Adrienne to perform a play – what then?"

"Come now, Miss Daaé, you have shown far greater intelligence than that. Surely _this_ has not escaped your notice." He impatiently waved a hand toward the black leather covering three-fourths of his features.

"The mask?" she asked in complete bewilderment.

"The face!" he snarled.

She blinked at his vicious rejoinder and shook her head in confusion. "But I don't - I didn't –"

"Spare me your profession of ignorance! Deceit does not become you. The similarities could not have escaped your notice."

Deceit…? _Similarities_?

"It is just a play!"

"Oh no – it is much more than that."

His cutting response brought to mind Madam Fairfax's brief recounting of his tragic life history and a 'damaged' face, though as she helped to make the costumes, Christine had only compared the puppet-like mask she'd been working on to his leather mask, not what he hid behind it. The warmth that rose to her skin brought a betraying flush to recall those thoughts, and she realized then, it was _he_ who compared himself to a beast.

He dryly nodded. "Ah, the light of revelation dawns."

She shook her head in her defense. "Any connection between the two escaped my notice, until now, and you are the only one of us who thinks that way." She lifted her gloved hands in a shrug. "They are simply words from a play written by Shakespeare designed to entertain and give Adrienne some small amount of activity to cut through the boredom as the season changes and the days grow too cold for outdoor play. Her first thought was of you – to surprise you with a performance. On hindsight, I should have insisted on another tale to perform, I see that now, but I didn't realize you would seek to draw untrue comparisons. I assure you, no one else has."

 _"Seek_ to draw...," he huffed a laugh that was far from humorous. "I have no need to hunt out scorn and ridicule; it follows me about like a shadow I cannot be rid of."

"No one here scorns or ridicules you."

"And how would you know that?" he asked more quietly. "How would you know what my _guests_ say or think about me behind closed doors?"

"How could they know anything at all?" she insisted. "From what I've gathered, the Vicomte has never met you, nor has Signora Guidicelli, though both are naturally curious about the Master of Thornfield. In all her years at the theatre Meg has seen you _once,_ her mother only several times more than that. Both women speak of you with the fear and respect attributed to a man of authority who rules over them and prefers to be regarded of as a ghost - like the supposed one that haunts the Paris opera house."

Christine inhaled a swift breath upon realizing the entirety of what she'd said, the nerve of it, and winced a little with the expectation of his barbed reply.

Slowly he clapped, once, twice, a third time. "Well said, mademoiselle," he uttered dryly. "I see you have kept yourself informed during my absence. Please, do not stop now – pray, continue. What else have you heard about me?"

She shook her head a bit meekly at her cheek. "I shouldn't have spoken so."

He snorted. "When have I ever instructed you to hold your tongue? I have always preferred that you not censor your words when conversing with me and have made no mystery of my predilection."

"If that is truly your wish…"

"I have said it."

Though his mouth had twisted bitterly at her impulsive mention of the two uninvited guests, he did seem to calm somewhat and she felt it wise not to expound on her assessment of his peculiar trait of secrecy. Nor did she mention his impatience that Meg alluded to, having experienced that characteristic of his herself.

His eyes studied her, as if only just now seeing her, and rested a little long on her unbound ringlets before he motioned to a nearby chair.

"Sit. It cannot be easy for you to remain standing."

After her wild romp through the woodland forest, it wasn't, but once she did as directed, deciding to overlook his curt arrogance to again address her as a pet, she felt at a distinct disadvantage with him now towering so imposing above her. Surely, any physical discomfort would be far easier to endure than this emotional upheaval.

"I wonder…" Once more he leaned his hips against the front of his desk, seemingly at ease though she sensed the tension pulling each muscle taut beneath his frock coat. "You speak of respect and acceptance, but if confronted with the visage of a beast, would you truly be so accommodating? Or do you believe, as the queen in the play stated, that to kiss such a face would be _repulsive_ and _scorn_ the very idea?"

She drew a sharp intake of breath. What in heaven's name was he asking? A _kiss_?

"' _Things base and vile, holding no quantity_ …,'" he cited, moving away from the desk to look out the window, as if suddenly unable to remain still, "'… _love can transpose to form and dignity. Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind. Nor hath Love's mind of any judgment taste – Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste. And therefore is Love said to be a child, because in choice he is so oft beguiled_ …'"

Erik turned then, watching the shock that flared so intensely in her dark eyes, noting how the curled fingers of her clasped hands had tightened in her sparrow-gray skirts. Disgust, yes, it was apparent in her every stilted breath. Perhaps dread, too, that he might pounce upon her like the beast life proclaimed him.

Before she could flood his ears with her revulsion, he expelled a disdainful breath.

"Simply words from a play – is that not what you called them? Why exhibit such distress, mademoiselle? Surely you recognize the quote…" He lifted his index finger in mock enlightenment. "But the bard was wrong! Love is no child of innocence. It is madness - _sheer insanity -_ the words Helena spoke coming out of spite and jealousy! None could tolerate or accept the beast; we all know this! Like everything else from the pen of Shakespeare, those words, too, are no more than fiction."

"How can you ask me for what I cannot give with sincere truthfulness, never having seen your face?"

Her quiet answer to his earlier question clearly stunned them both. Though she had said something similar during their first meeting in the parlor, then she spoke in straightforward response, but now there throbbed the existence of curiosity.

"You did say you want me to speak what's on my mind," she quickly excused her rash words.

Her indirect probing into what gave him untold anguish hardly came as a shock. He had never encountered a soul that had not in some way made inquiry as to why he covered his face, whether curiosity came silent, through questing eyes, or verbally, with insolent remarks.

"To look beyond the mask. I wondered when you would question."

"I had no right to." She bowed her head in meek servitude. "Forgive me."

Strangely enough, it wasn't a look he desired to see her wear, though he expected it of his staff, and he waved her apology away. "You are so certain that you would not withdraw in fear, as have so many before you?" He forced his voice to remain calm. "Even _you_ are not that brave, Christine."

She lifted her head, a new sparkle of determination in her eye. "I am no wilting lily, monsieur."

"True, I have seen that you're not. Yet if my own mother could not bear the sight of me, preferring to keep walls of thick stone between us, what makes you believe yourself to be so different?"

The question was rhetorical, and he surged ahead before she could respond, not wishing to belabor the point or give her incentive to attempt to persuade him in what he would never do –

Never would he remove the mask in her presence.

"Your hands." He cast his attention down to the white gloves that covered them. "They still give you discomfort?"

Christine blinked in confusion, her mind a jumble at the unexpectedness of his rapid-fire change in topic. "I... no, they're much better."

"Yet you wear gloves."

"As protection until they fully heal."

"Let me see them." As he spoke, he moved toward her.

There was no reason to refuse, he had treated her burns when they were fresh, yet she couldn't help but feel nervous as she removed her gloves and watched his approach. He dropped to one knee before her and took one of her outstretched palms in his hand, much as he had done that night.

Her heart turned over at his unexpected tenderness, the ghosted touch of his fingertips, and a tiny spark generated at the contact of his cool flesh against hers. Christine gave a little jump, though he didn't move, and she concentrated on keeping her breathing steady…

Erik looked up into her eyes, noting her uncertainty, before lowering his gaze and brushing the pad of his thumb softly over pink patches of healing skin that would whiten over time. Scarred…she would be scarred in places, the healing balm unable to thwart the damage as wholly as he would have wished, and in a moment of sincere remorse, he bent to press his lips gently to the sensitive formations.

At her faint gasp, he again lifted his head to look into wide eyes, dark and stunned.

"You should never have been made to suffer for my sake. Would that I could turn back the hands of time to prevent your affliction."

"I can still hold a paintbrush," she said, sounding a little breathless. "But I wouldn't change what happened if it meant that I hadn't been there to wake you. You could have _died_ that night."

He exhaled the barest huff of amusement. "And will you now possess my soul?"

"Possess it?" she whispered in bewilderment.

"An old Chinese belief; once you save a life, it is yours to own."

Tingles coursed through her blood to hear him speak of their bond, which seemed to strengthen with each encounter shared. And though he spoke with casual dignity, as if only to impart a nugget of foreign history, she tentatively took his words to heart.

"Your sole, has it likewise healed?"

"My _soul?"_

"Of your foot."

"Oh." The thought of removing stocking and shoe and having his hands again so intimately touch the bare flesh of her leg prompted her to hurriedly assure, "It's fine! Really. As good as my hands. I was only on my feet overly much today."

His lips flickered at the corners at her hasty and awkward reply. Her face felt as if it bloomed the color of a cardinal's feathers and soon he might make that parallel.

"And if it wasn't healing well, would you deceive me or tell me truthfully?"

"I would tell you, of course. I don't condone deceit."

"Very well." He released her and straightened to stand. "You may continue to wear gloves if you wish, but it is not imperative to do so. The fresh air would likely help at this stage. I also recommend that you continue with the cooling balm each night before you retire and the herbal remedies by day."

"You speak as if you have suffered the experience," she said before she could consider it wise.

He offered a sharp glance, and she saw a warning in the golden depths, _not_ to inquire again about his face.

"I have had experience in dealing with burns, as I told you when you were injured. "

"And what of the play?" She brought the conversation back to where it began. "What should I tell Adrienne?"

He blew out a heavy breath. "Do as you will. If you wish to proceed, I won't stop you. Neither will I be there to witness its presentation."

Christine drew her brows together. "Adrienne's fondest hope was to present the play to you."

"I have better things to do with my time than to spend it among amateurs stumbling through a crude interpretation of Shakespeare. As for Carlotta Guidicelli, I have seen and heard enough of her contrived repertoire of clownish theatrics in Paris."

From what Christine had witnessed these past few days, she couldn't help but silently agree. "Will you throw her and the Vicomte out of Thornfield, since they weren't invited?" she asked hesitantly.

A pleased look relaxed what she could see of his features. "The idea crossed my mind. And do you approve?"

"Well…no." Christine inwardly squirmed at the sudden dark frown he gave. "Strangely enough, the woman and Adrienne have formed a companionship, and the Vicomte said he came only to escort the diva, but I should hate to see Adrienne's hope for the play dashed, and it will be if they're forced to leave."

His mouth tightened into a thin line. "I will consider the matter."

"It is my hope that you'll also reconsider attending once the play is presented, since we both agree – it is _only a play_."

His eyes narrowed at her gentle manipulation. "I have no plans to mingle among the guests. As you might have deduced from our nocturnal meeting in the countryside, I do not do well at socializing with others."

She regarded him with wary surprise. "But if you intend to keep yourself absent from your guests, why then did you invite them to Thornfield?"

"I did not issue the invitation to the Girys for my benefit; I did it for you."

Confusion brought her eyes wide. "For _me_?"

He nodded. "I knew Madame Giry's daughter had been at Lindenwood, and presumed she was there at the time you inhabited its halls. I had hoped that this would be a pleasant experience for you, in part, as a token of gratitude for your service in helping me extinguish the fire before it could raze Thornfield. Was I mistaken?"

"No," she whispered, struck by his thoughtfulness. He had done this for _her_? "Meg was my bosom friend, as dear as a sister. More family than the family I have. Maestro, you cannot know what this means to me – when she was taken away, I was devastated. Nothing at the institution was ever the same and only grew more dreary with each passing day…"

Her words of thankfulness did not reassure; rather, from what she could see of his expression his features sobered, growing troubled. And she thought that perhaps her candid talk stirred up his own unpleasant trove of memories.

Blinking away the moisture from her lashes, Christine reached for and held his hand, bringing her other hand over the top to cup his. On instinct, she bowed her head to lightly press her lips to his knuckles, as he had done to her palm. He flinched but did not wrench his hold from her grasp, and the coolness of his flesh soothed the sensitivity of hers. Her lips also tingled.

"Thank you," she said softly, peering up at him. "I am beyond grateful."

Their eyes held a moment before she swiftly released him, feeling suddenly awkward by her excessive show of gratitude, which certainly must be out of line for a governess. "May I again speak plainly?"

Behind the mask, his glistening eyes had narrowed, but he gave a curt nod.

"I -I hope you'll change your mind and shun this distance you have chosen to create. I should think everyone would welcome the presence of their host. They are still your guests, as you were the one to issue the invitation, and except for Meg, I'm frankly at a loss with how to keep them entertained - though certainly I don't presume that it's my place to do so."

 _"Guests,"_ he growled quietly. "The Girys I invited. The other two are nothing more than pesky gatecrashers, but please, if you would be so inclined, feel free to play hostess. Entertain them however you like, but do not look for me to make an entrance into their midst any time soon."

"You socialize well enough with me," she pointed out.

He seemed surprised that she would arrive at that conclusion. "You are…unique. We share a love of art. Nor do you persist in matters I have no wish to discuss by disguising impudent curiosity as empty flattery. And you do not endlessly intrude into my privacy with rude questions I shall never answer."

She nodded, thinking he had done exactly that, with her. But then, it was his right as her employer, especially in the interest of his young ward.

The Maestro held out his hand to aid her to rise. Christine had just reached out to grab that hand in gratitude, had _kissed_ that hand. Now she held back in unease of her brazen manner, before clutching her gloves in one hand and accepting his help with the other.

Standing to her feet brought her near to him, so close, she felt the heat of his body warm her front. When he did not immediately let go of her fingers, her lashes flicked up to meet his weighty gaze. Her heart skipped a beat at the intensity of his glowing eyes that seemed possessive…oddly wistful…and she recalled their earlier discussion...

A kiss.

His bold stare dropped to her softy parted lips, while barely a breath stirred from her frozen lungs.

And in that impossible, paralyzing moment she imagined how his lips might feel pressed against _her lips_ … imagined, too, that she might work up enough nerve to lift herself shamelessly to her toes, across that diminutive barrier of space, and uncover the answer. She did not believe she imagined that he might allow it; he had made no move toward her, but his every action, his every fractured breath, stated that he also wished to discover what she now yearned to know.

A sudden knock scattered all unknown possibilities, and startled, she took a quick, staggered step back on her tender foot, bumping into the chair. She would have fallen over if not for his hand that shot out to grab her arm and steady her balance. He inclined his head in an inquisitive nod as if to assure she could stand. She nodded nervously in return, then looked away before he dropped his hold on her.

"Enter!" he bellowed, sounding angry.

Immediately the door to the library swung open. The downstairs maid, Elaine, paused a step to see Christine, before she hurried forward and stopped a short distance away.

"Maestro, the man who's come for the position of groundskeeper just arrived," she hastened to say and turned to look at Christine. "Madame Fairfax is looking for you, mademoiselle, to discuss tonight's dinner menu."

"I should go…."

She darted a look at the Maestro for permission, and he nodded. Throughout her anxious retreat, Christine felt the heat from his eyes scorch her the entire way out the door.

 _A kiss!_

She could scarcely believe that she had almost behaved so scandalously as to initiate something so shocking! Had there been no knock, Christine was certain she would have given in to her heart's urging. She couldn't seem to think with any clarity when his eyes burned into hers with such intensity...when his strong, musician's hands ghosted touches along her skin...when his lips brushed tender against her palm…

As the flames of memory heated her face and she grew breathless from the quick pace she set, Christine was also certain that 'repulsive' had no place in describing what the experience of a kiss with the Maestro would have entailed.

xXx

Near suppertime the following day, Christine entered Madame Fairfax's parlor with Meg, both women stopping short to see that only one place setting had been laid on the white linen tablecloth.

"Madame...?" Christine inquired of the housekeeper.

"The Maestro was explicit in his instructions that his guests should be served in the dining room," the older woman explained.

"I see." Christine had obviously erred to invite Meg and her mother to sup at the servants' table. She looked with some sheepishness at her friend. "I had wondered, but didn't know if such a thing was permitted or not. Never mind. We will meet later, in the parlor. I am eager to hear more about the theatre."

"I would prefer to eat here with you," Meg insisted, "as we've done all along."

"The truth is I've never played hostess, Meg, and didn't realize there were such rules to follow. He was a bit annoyed about the play…" An understatement, if ever she'd uttered one. "And I have no wish to rile him further."

Meg crossed her arms over her chest. "Then let it be on my head," she announced. "I should think he would want his guests happy."

"Neither of you are to dine here tonight," Madame Fairfax broke in, a decided twinkle in her eye. "The Maestro made it clear that you're to join them, Christine."

"Oh, but _…truly?"_ she asked with doubt. _  
_

"Splendid!" Meg enthused. "Come, Christine, and I will tell you of the time La Carlotta's poodle got loose and chased a cat all over the stage during rehearsal and the havoc that resulted!" Meg grabbed her hand and practically hauled a dazed Christine from the small parlor.

Ever since her arrival at Thornfield, she had never once dined at the elegantly laid table and felt flummoxed and a little anxious by the sudden change, but she walked with her friend, giggling at Meg's tale of the humorous animal antics.

The evening transpired with barely a rumple in its newly ironed routine, Meg seated with Christine at the far end of the table, away from La Carlotta who sat near the head. The redhead babbled non-stop to the Vicomte, who sent occasional stares down the long table toward Christine, as if wishing to join their company. Meg's bright talk of the theatre and its quirks made the evening delightful. The dishes served were sumptuous in their presentation and flavor, and Christine felt a hint of pride to have had a hand in their planning, when she knew next to nothing of such delicacies.

"I don't know what the help is theenking, to take such airs and dine where they do not belong."

La Carlotta's voice lifted just loud enough so Christine was sure to hear. The Vicomte frowned, and Meg offered Christine a sympathetic look.

"Pay her no mind," Meg said, keeping her voice low but strong enough for the diva to hear. "She is one to speak of belonging, having received no invitation!"

A narrow-eyed Carlotta sent a waspish look Meg's way. "I was told by the managers you Girys were to come here, by invitation of a patron, and I should make my introductions known."

Madame and Meg shared a solemn look of surprise.

"The _managers_ told you to come to Thornfield?" Madame Giry interrupted, sitting between Meg and the Vicomte.

"Si, si…" Carlotta said in haughty tones. "Why would they not? I am, after all, their star!"

Meg's mother shook her braided head. "He will not be pleased," Christine thought she heard her say, but couldn't be sure; Madame spoke low, as if to herself, then cleared her throat. "I have received word from the Opera House. The renovations have only just begun, and they will not be ready to resume the production for at least another three weeks…"

The conversation continued in that vein, La Carlotta chiming in once or twice to blame the outbreak of the fires on the 'dastardly Phantom,' and thus the evening commenced and ended.

The next evening, when Christine again was instructed by Madame Fairfax that she was to eat in the main dining room, explaining it was for the duration while the Maestro's guests were in residence, she felt calmer and more assured as she again walked beside Meg. They arrived at the parlor, to await the servant's announcement that dinner was served. Other than the pretentious diva, Christine had been graciously accepted by the remaining guests, who did not make her feel like she was committing a mortal sin to sup with them.

Any hard-won veneer of confidence cracked when, five minutes after she and Meg arrived to join the three diners, a sixth figure entered the room -

The Maestro...

Tonight, he wore a different mask, one of dark silver that covered only half his face. Thin loops and scrolls painted in ebony ornamented the edge near his temple and jaw. Tall and elegant in his customary black frock coat and trousers, his waistcoat was of deep forest green with golden accents that brought out both the green and gold in his eyes, the ascot he wore above of black silk. Never having seen this much of his face, Christine found that she could not look away as she took note of its every line and detail.

The mask that dully shimmered fully encompassed his right cheek and arced to end above his upper lip, covering half his nose and trailing upward to the middle of his brows, arching to the right high to his forehead and ending within the locks of his raven hair. Thin, wispy strands hung past his jawline, the majority pulled tightly back in the usual short tail fastened with black ribbon. His cheekbone was set high in a lean face, his jaw firm and set like steel, a testament to his mood. The golden-green eye fully seen was rimmed by dark lashes below a straight dark eyebrow.

Like some debonair pirate, he stood in the doorway with cavalier grace, though Christine sensed the bunched muscles beneath his dapper attire and wondered if only she witnessed the mockery in his eyes as he looked around the room at his guests - the wanted and the unwanted.

"Good evening, monsieur..." He gave a clipped nod to a curious Raoul. "Mesdames..." A curt bow was directed to a gawking Carlotta and a sedate Madame Giry… "Mademoiselles…" Another slight bow was given toward the sofa where Christine and Meg sat in utter shock. "I bid you welcome to my home! Welcome to Thornfield!"

 **xXx**

* * *

 **A/N: As much as I would love to keep writing this chapter – I think this is a good stop off point to post – besides, I don't want you to have to wait any longer for the reading. So, what did you think of his entrance? Did you suspect it? Before another giant wave of drama crashes, (and it will) I have some fun things planned I hope you will enjoy… ;-) All feedback welcome!**


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